Disclaimer:

All Phantom characters are not mine. However, after Carimlu's stunning performance at the Royal Albert Hall, unfortunately I did not see it live, I can confirm, with utter and complete certainty that I would have absolutely no problem with being owned by Erik.

Author's note:

My dear readers,

I must sincerely apologize, as I am well aware of just how long it has been since I have taken up this lovely bit of work. Unfortunately, this is a piece on which I am only able to work when my muses are with me, and, as has probably become rather obvious, that has not occurred in some time. Not to mention the fact that, well, life tends to like to try and get in the way. Cursed life!

However, as a result of the previously mentioned performance and the character study of Erik I have, yet again, under taken, I am finally able to write again. I thank you for your patience, and encourage you to strongly consider not killing me for taking so long, as, without me, this story will cease to exist.

I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review,

Aminta

X

"Kyre eleison, Christi eleison,"

It was one of the few times I had actually deemed fit to ask mercy of God. After all, what need had I? I had renounced God far too long ago to even properly recollect, but if there was a time I needed that mercy, this was that moment. For surely I would taint that which he considered most pure with only a look, and a look did not even begin to touch what I truly wanted.

What had I done? Become an utter love sick fool, that was what. Yes, she had agreed to go with me of her own accord, but it was only because she was possessed of no other option at the time. Yes, she had claimed to love me, but she was a child. How could she know love, and if she did, how could she begin to fathom the intensity with which I loved her? This was madness!

I was mad, but not with the need to create, or the lust for blood that were my usual companions, this time my madness came from love and love alone. For one of the first times in my life, I knew fear because the emotion which spawned this madness was, until a few short weeks ago, completely foreign to me, and now, I had absolutely no inclination as to what to do with it.

"Dies iri, dies ila!"

Yes, perhaps that was a better description of my fate. For, as I watched the angel before me sleeping upon the floor cushions, the familiar voices of doubt once more began their endless chant in my mind, and I knew my day of wrath would, all the sooner, be upon me for what I had done.

"You are no more than a monster, an animal. How could she love you? How could she do anything but lothe you when you have deceived her like the wretch, the murderer, the disgusting creature you are?"

Several times through of the chants endless round it was, before I came to terms with the fact that pacing at the side of the floor cushions where my young protégée slept would do naught but madden me further. Music, however, music was and always had been the source of any soul I possessed. She had never failed to sate and satisfy me, like the unconditional lover she was.

Even now, I cannot say what it was that stirred my Christine from her sleep. For, so heavily was I wrapped in my cloak of music that I did not hear that most delicate of steps upon the floor. In fact, I heard, nor felt, nor sensed a single thing until her porcelain skinned fingers replaced the cold and unfeeling porcelain of my mask.

As I look back now upon the next few moments, I realize just how little I remember, but such is always common when the rages overtake me, as they still sometimes do. The howl that ripped from my throat as I pinned the delicate figure before me to the wall threatened to ensure that I would never sing another note, but little did I care. She had seen, and she would pay for the crime she had committed.

"Does it please you, mam'selle," I growled hoarsely, "This thing which you have seen? Is it all you hoped it would be?"

Here, we see the first of the places where your stories tell such dreadful tales. You see, my Christine did not scream, nor did she cry. Even then, she seemed to be possessed of some sense which told her what lay beneath the mask. As I howled and hissed with little care for where I struck and what hurtful things I said, tender fingers caressed my scars, waiting for me to have done.

After what must have been an hour or two of my shattering mirrors, toppling my viles of ink, and destroying anything else my hand could find at the time, several scores included, I suppose she must have tired of my childish ways. For, in what seemed only an instant, in my rage fogged perception of time, she was before me with her hand resting sharply upon my shoulder.

"Enough Erik!" she growled, "It is not your face which frightens me but this, this rage. Now, be still!"

The look upon my face must surely have been something utterly laughable, but so gentle was my Christine that she ne'er would have dreamed of making such a jesture. Slowly, I recovered myself, assessing the damage that had been done and mentally noting the things that must be replaced and put back to right. Reaching out my hand for my mask, I was once again stunned into shocked silence when she refused to return it.

"My mask, Miss daae,' I snapped bitterly, "And I shall trouble you no longer with this sight."

"Non Maestro," she explained softly, "I have seen worse, and how am I ever to know you if there are such buriers between us?"

I had imagined it, truly I must have. There was no reason for her to have said she had any wish to know me. I truly was mad, but, if it had come to that, I would suffer these dilusions in bliss… such beautiful dilusions. Avoiding the obvious rout of conversation, for did I truly wish to know how she had seen worse, I returned to the familiar safety of my anger.

"You have seen, mon ange," I purred dangerously, "You are mine!"

"I am no man's until I choose to be," she retorted, "Maitenant, until you can know reason again, you will return me to my dressing room. You may return to me when you are sufficiently over your fit of temper to speak to me properly.""

I could have kept her. In fact, every part of me screamed that I must do just that. Save for that single part, the part that gave way to utter love and devotion. She had asked to be returned, and return her I would.

The journey to the world above passed silently enough, but, at least, she had not flinched from my arm when I offered it to her. She had only sighed softly, and, dare I have hoped it, in pleasure and settled into step beside me.

Standing at the mirror, she reached out her small hand to me and finally returned my mask, but before I could replace it, she placed her lips tenderly against my right cheek, speaking three words whose whisper fluttered against my scars…

"Return to me."