A/N: Thank you so much for the latest reviews! :) It's fun to see where you guys are with this and what you think will happen. (chapter deserves the rating)

And now…

XXI

"Angel of Music, hide no longer. Come to me, dear Angel…"

Christine bowed her head of messy curls and nervously giggled at her audacity to summon so magnificent a creature. Of course, it was all in play. A game of pretend. Kneeling in the chapel alone, with no one nearby to hear her impertinent and bold request, she felt it safe to indulge in these little fantasies - for fantasies were all they could ever be - that she a simple child could have a mighty angel heed her call and bend to her wishes!

He would never arrive at dusk to greet her. Since the first time she heard his deep, beautiful voice in this sacred chamber, he had visited only after the dawn, before morning practice began. And she had tumbled out of bed early to meet with him, barely going through the dreadful chore of running a brush through her tangles of hair, once again messy after the day's practice.

"What a lovely voice you have…"

At the soft flow of words announcing his unexpected presence, Christine gave a little yelp and nearly fell over. She jumped to her feet then thought better of that and dropped back down to her trembling knees, pressing her hands together beneath her chin in prayerful obeisance.

"Angel," she whispered, her eyes flickering to the presence of the painted one upon the wall, then quickly back down to the flagstones. "Forgive me. I didn't know you were there."

"Do you fear me, timid child?" There was something infinitely sad about his quiet words. "I would never wish harm to come to you. I wish only to protect you."

This brought a tremulous smile, and she lifted her face in relief that he wasn't upset. In the three months since he first came to her, his weekly visits turning into daily ones in this third month, he told her wondrous stories or sang to her with his beautiful voice. He treated her as if she was special, as Papa once did.

No, she did not truly fear the Angel – only the omniscient and invisible being that he was.

It was that truth that at last gave her the courage to speak.

"Angel, may I ever see your face?"

A long silence elapsed, and she worried that she had angered him with her daring question or her earlier show of weakness, and he had left. She trembled at the thought, then heard his long drawn-out sigh.

"No, my child. My countenance would only frighten you. In all historical accounts of the holy book by which your father raised you to believe, did not all such encounters between the heavenly host and mere mortals start with the salutation - 'Be ye not afraid'?"

Christine did not understand some of what the Angel said, he spoke with such grand words, but she nodded anyhow.

"Is it still your desire to sing? I am here today to grant that for which you have asked."

Her disappointment at his refusal to see him disappeared in the glorious light of his admission. She had asked twice for him to teach her, in the first two weeks of their meeting, but he never gave the answer she craved. After that, she kept her silence, fearing he would think her insolent and unworthy if she persisted. Now she gasped in delight, her eyes going round in surprise.

"Oh yes, Angel! It is all I ever wanted. To sing and have you teach me. Will you really teach me…?"

"I have said it."

After Papa's death, Christine thought she could never know happiness again, but in her splendid Angel's presence, the dark sorrow had begun to fade and she felt hope.

"Will you do all that I ask of you to accomplish this – to sing – so that one day you might take the stage as a star performer?"

The very idea of being in La Carlotta's place seemed as farfetched as the clouds in the sky or those painted inside the dome of the theater. But if her Angel of Music said it would come to pass, she believed it to be so.

"I will always obey you, Angel. I swear it."

"Then stand to your feet, dear child, and listen…"

The soothing strains of a violin seemed to come from beyond the wall before her, and she rose slowly to her feet, closing her eyes in rapture to the sound…

"Christine!"

Abruptly jolted from her sweet reverie, Christine blinked. She turned her full attention to the tall masked man, once a mysterious Angel, who now walked beside her and led their recent acquirement of a horse by its tether.

The startled look in her former Maestro's eyes unnerved her, and she wondered what new infraction she had committed. All morning long his manner had been dour and distant and feeling absent of his company, Christine had slipped into ruminating about the past, into those moments worthy of remembrance.

"That song," he whispered. "From whence does it come?"

"Song?" She nervously pulled her lower lip between her teeth, not realizing her reminisces had manifested into their present reality. "I didn't realize I was singing."

"You were humming a tune I have heard before."

"Oh." After their argument at the inn, and his hurt anger with her evasion of his questions, Christine knew better than to completely avoid speaking of their past, though she sought to be careful with what she revealed. "I was thinking of my childhood and the first occasion I heard that song. I'm sure it has been around for many, many years, so it doesn't come as a surprise that you would recognize it."

The necessary deceit threatened to burn her tongue to cinders. She hated to mislead him but couldn't tell him that as a child of seven, she composed one line of a song in her make-believe game of growing closer to an Angel – a line he later developed into a full aria, which he then sung to her and she to him, as she drew close to where he stood behind a mirror door on the night she entered his candlelit world. No, she couldn't tell him that.

He studied her a moment yet thankfully did not question further. She decided it prudent to change the subject before he could delve further into the mystery of the melody regarding an Angel of Music.

"Can you tell me now, what had you so upset in the village?" she asked.

Beneath the mask his jaw tensed, but he gave a curt nod.

"I wish for nothing to stand between us," he said, increasing her shame for not offering him the same deserved courtesy. Her self-inflicted argument that she refrained from the full truth for his well-being did little to assuage the guilt.

"The imbecile would not at first turn the horse over to me," Erik explained acerbically. "He did not believe the merchant sold it into my possession. And then the fool was without the skill to read what I shoved at his face with regard to the bill of sale." He barked out a short laugh. "I had to …persuade him that all was in order and he would not be punished for abetting in thievery." He shook his head in bitter remembrance. "He soon realized that my brand of punishment would be far less desirable than anything the insipid merchant could deliver."

Christine well remembered his merciless brand of intimidation to those who defied him at the Opera House and could not repress a little shudder.

He looked her way. "I owe you a debt of gratitude for the advice to create a written agreement."

She frowned. "It doesn't sound as if it did the good I hoped it would. For that I am sorry."

"On the contrary, without the paper I likely would not have gotten as far as I did in my persuasions to yield." He glanced her way again, a pensive look in his eye. "I do find it odd that you know of such business matters."

Hurriedly she looked to the path before them, afraid he might see in her eyes more than she wished. "I spent a lifetime at the Opera House and saw many things in my years there. But Maestro, I don't wish to speak of that right now…"

"You have another topic you wish to discuss?"

"Yes," she said somewhat anxiously. "We will be returning to your campsite soon, and, well, save for Tobias, your men don't like me. They think I'm a witch."

He scoffed. "Do not be concerned with what those fools think."

"I'm not, not really..."

She hesitated with what she so desperately wanted to say. They had just vowed their love to one another scant hours ago; it was certainly too early to ask him to leave his churlish men, most of whom were clearly unappreciative of their leader, and come away to find and build a life with her. Save for the suspicious blacksmith, those in the village had treated them with a measure of kindness. Perhaps they could find another small village and start afresh there. All this she thought, but dared not voice…not yet.

She felt his hand suddenly slip into hers, and was warmed by his touch, in heart and body.

"Be not afraid, Christine. I will never cease to protect you, but while within the camp you must always do as I say. Will you abide by my words and not test them?"

Her lips twitched at the similarity of her Angel's inquiry from that long-ago day in the chapel.

"So, outside of camp I may have the freedom to do as I will?"

His brow lifted at her sudden teasing manner, and his lips twisted in a wary half smile.

"And what is it that you will, ma damoiselle?"

Their change in status made her bold.

"To start with - this."

Slipping her other hand over his that still clutched her own, she swept nearer and, lifting herself on her toes, brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth.

He stood immobile, his stunned reaction confusing to her after the absolute intimacy they had shared - before a mask inexplicably dropped over his eyes. This one invisible, but somehow creating more of a shield to hide behind than the covering he had again exchanged for the customary black leather.

"Maestro…?" she asked worriedly.

He squeezed her hand, keeping it clasped firmly in his, that act alone reassuring her he was not unduly upset. At least not with her. His moods could be mercurial, and though she wished to know why her token of affection had brought about such a change in his behavior, she felt it wise not to insist on an answer until he was ready to speak.

They walked a short distance, a soft wind blowing the damp tendrils of hair from her face. The conical tops of the trees, so high to the heavens she had to crane to see them, gently rustled and swayed. The forest was serene, bathed in its green darkness, the sun hidden behind the many boughs.

"Do you miss it?" he suddenly asked. "Your life before this?"

"Sometimes," she said carefully, thinking of all they had been to each other and the music they had shared. Those moments she missed terribly. "But it's foolish to dwell on what can never be changed…" She searched her mind for how to express herself without giving too much away.

"Because you are trapped here, with me," he finished for her, his words clipped and full of resignation.

She came to a halt and faced him. He also stopped walking and regarded her curiously.

Her heart full, Christine barely remembered to curb his name from her tongue.

"I meant every word I spoke last night. After the close moments we so recently shared, how could you think otherwise?" She felt her face flame a little with her reference to their lovemaking and shook her head in gentle frustration. "I love you, Maestro. And if I feel trapped by anything, it is this strange century in which I find myself, not the man with whom I share it."

The faintest of smiles lifted his lips, and he brushed her cheek with his fingers.

"I shall endeavor to hold that truth in my memory, though it is unfortunate I cannot promise it will remain."

At his quiet almost apologetic words, she gave him a sympathetic smile. "Then I will be sure to remind you every day."

Unable to help herself, she again moved forward, this time to press a kiss to his lips in promise. This time he did not flinch or grow distant, and she was greatly encouraged by his tender smile.

The remainder of their day progressed with ease now that those greater troubles that beset them had been aired and managed. In the afternoon, they rested by a still small pond that shone like a mirror and ate the meat pies Erik procured before leaving the village. Afterward, they continued their journey until the sun had nearly disappeared and the sky through the trees became a wash of muted violets, rose, and gold. It was then that he declared they would rest for the night.

Minutes later, armed against the encroaching darkness with the steadily burning lantern, Christine wearily sat down with her back against the trunk of a tree and waited while Erik ventured into the darkness to gather wood for a fire.

Footsteps crackled in the forest path, waking her just as she'd just nodded off, and she jumped a little in shock. She was surprised to see her husband return to stand before her, his arms empty of wood.

"Come, Christine." He held out his hand.

"Has something happened?" She shook her head to clear it into wakefulness, when a dreadful thought struck. "Have they found us? The Vicomte and his men?"

"No, ma belle, we are safe. I have discovered a better location for our slumber. Come…"

Her fears assuaged, she couldn't help wonder about the secretive smile he gave and swore she could detect a twinkle in his eyes before he averted them.

With his aid, she rose to her feet. He kept her hand in his large one and picked up the lantern, leading her through the area from which he had just emerged. A short walk later, they broke through the heavy cover of evergreens, and Christine gasped at the sight, bringing her other hand up to clutch his arm in delighted surprise.

They had come to a grassy cliff devoid of trees and bushes. There, all around, softly blinked hundreds upon hundreds of tiny golden lights, glowing with a gentle luminescence that lit up the dark night sky.

"Oh, my…" she whispered in wonder.

x

Satisfied by her bedazzled response to his simple offering, the Phantom watched his enchanted bride as she stared at the multitude of fireflies, some of them so close she could reach out and touch them, if she so willed.

"Do you believe in the faeries?" she inquired with the same reverence she had used before. "That they exist?"

He studied her where she stood, the wild tumble of her dark ringlets cascading down her back while golden beams showered highlights of the same incandescent gold upon her cloak and in her hair. She resembled a beautiful faerie with the countless dancing lights gracefully swirling around and above her, causing her to sparkle as the night sky did.

"It is alleged that in his youth my grandfather captured one, to become his captive for nigh unto a year."

"But you don't believe?" She looked over her shoulder at him.

He spread out a pelt over the grass then beckoned her to sit down with a slight curl of two fingers. She hesitated a moment before obeying his silent command.

"Sit with me?" she looked up at him, her dark eyes glistening with hope.

Pleased by her request, he lowered himself down beside her, deciding his task to gather kindling for a fire could wait a little longer.

"I have never seen one to know," he said offhandedly. "My parents certainly must have believed in the Fae, to sacrifice me at the standing stones, in the hope of the return for what they presumed to be their perfect stolen child."

Despite his desire to remain aloof and untouched by emotion, the acidic bitterness washed up into his words.

She shifted closer, so that they sat hip to hip, and slipped her hand into his where it rested on his thigh. He was grateful for her nearness, which warmed him within and without.

They watched the performance of minuscule golden lights, and Christine rested her head against his shoulder. The Phantom switched hands to hold with hers, so as to wrap one arm around her back and draw her even closer until she almost half lay in his lap.

He marveled at how intensely his feelings were wrapped up in this woman, whom he had known barely a fortnight. His damsel, his wife...his Angel. He inhaled a swift breath at how suitable the endearment felt for her, how...familiar?

Perhaps because she had spoken of her Angel of Music, the moniker came with ease. He frowned to think of such a vindictive creature, it seeming a sacrilege to bestow upon his pure bride the odious cur's blandishment, which suited that devil not at all. The Phantom was no saint, far from it, but to put his gentle damsel through such anguish as he had discerned within her stilted words of her time spent with Erik was certainly a crime. He had no desire either to share the name of such a fiend, a great reason why he forbade her to call him by it. Nor did he want her to think of that dark "Angel" when she lay within the Phantom's arms.

With a wince, he remembered how in his jealous doubt he had snapped at her over the malevolent fool, and very nearly brought her to tears. And earlier, when she so unexpectedly tendered a kiss, his indifferent reaction long used as a defense had clearly hurt her. It was a poor excuse, but the Phantom was unaccustomed to any woman showing him affection, love, or understanding to know how to respond - and this rare beauty who now belonged to him unconditionally had granted him all three.

"Christine, ma damoiselle," he whispered, suddenly giving vent to his thoughts and putting them into words. "I am not a patient man, but never do I wish to treat you with anything but the adoration you deserve. I shall endeavor to keep that vow always, even as you hide your secrets, which are so prevalent in your expressive dark eyes. One day it is my hope that you will share them with me…"

He thought about that, thought about the many narrow escapes they had undergone and her compassion and companionship toward him that never wavered but always remained stable and true. Even after having seen his face during his dark duress, when he remained wretchedly unaware, even then she later accepted him into her magnificent body and awarded him her full trust. And so he decided to share with her a truth that remained a paradox, a trouble and a comfort.

She was his wife, but not the only one to keep secrets.

"Since you came into my life, it has changed in ways I fail to understand. These foul lapses of memory never once involve time spent with you. I recall every moment of every day we have spent together implicitly, and sense that I always will, though my life prior to the night you stumbled into my camp lies buried within a fog."

His arm tightened around her as he gathered the courage to say what he must.

"You are the woman from my dreams during the dark spells, the woman who taunts me to follow but then flees. Who stares at me so woefully, with tears and regrets and a strange hope that brands my soul and gives me both relief and despair – but how can this be when I have never before known you?"

The question was rhetorical, and he shook his head in disgust with his failings to understand and went on without awaiting her reply. Never had he been so open with anyone in his entire existence, but there were scant few of his association deserving of his time.

"I do not believe you to be a witch, as you so often fear, but I know they exist and have long contemplated if I might be under some unnatural spell of black magic. Cursed as my face is cursed. And yet, perhaps this most recent and desirable change involving you is by virtue of the love I have recently discovered, now that I better understand its meaning – could this retention of our days shared be a natural cause of such love...? Christine...?"

When she failed to respond, he inclined his head to better see her face.

Her lashes fanned her cheeks, her breathing soft and even in exhausted slumber. A trifle disappointed that she'd heard not a word of his heartfelt declaration, the Phantom lifted his hand to stroke her jaw with his fingertips.

"Sleep well, Mon Ange..."

Upon hearing the chosen and discarded name slip from his tongue, he grudgingly realized the endearment was perfect for the angelic woman in his arms. Indeed, he could think of none other to describe her half as well.

So too came the unexpected urge to hum to her while she slept. Strange, when he had never before sung a note until knowing her and heeding her pleas to sing…

xXx

Deep within the realm of sleep, Christine smiled to hear her Angel's transcendent voice which barely brought her to the surface, only to be gently immersed once more into dreamless slumber…

When again she came to slow awareness, it was to the most stirring of experiences, wondrous ones she had felt before, performed by her husband.

His lips ghosted across her temple to her cheek and jaw, barely brushing against her lips, while his warm fingers glided back and forth beneath her ruched up gown and between her thighs he must have pushed apart.

Her lashes fluttered open as she drew in a soft, staggered breath. A small fire burned nearby, illuminating his masked face and his eyes that glowed like twin blue flames.

She opened her mouth to question but before she could think what to ask, he placed one finger to his parted lips, his other hand never ceasing to stroke her needy skin. Prickles of chills raced along her rapidly heating flesh at the memory of how he had made the same gesture for silence in the Don Juan. As they did then, his eyes burned with all of what he wished to do to her…was now doing with practiced skill.

Then she did not fully understand; now she understood so well...

He dipped one long finger then two inside, stroking deeply, his thumb moving to the tiny bud of flesh bound up with a mass of riveting sensation and rubbing her in the manner that gave such infinite pleasure. Her gasps became soft moans and her lashes fluttered closed again as she came entirely awake.

The Phantom watched, never taking his intent eyes from her face, the cream of her desire drenching his skin as for a pleasurable span of time she gracefully writhed beneath his tender caresses. Her face grew flushed in passion, her sweet exhalations and quiet moans music to his ears.

She squeezed her eyes tightly, her moans elevating in pitch and sound, her wet velvet walls surrounding his fingers now clenching and releasing as her shining face relaxed into its former smooth contours. Her lips trembled, and he dipped his head to gently partake of their sweetness - but moved back when she attempted to unlace his tunic beneath the cloak he still wore.

Giving her pleasure increased his desire twofold, but he restrained from feeding his own hunger, wishing for this passionate awakening to the dawn to be for Christine's sake alone, a testament to how he adored her.

"Maestro?" she asked in confusion in the gentle, husky undertone that always appeared after they were intimate.

"This morn was for you alone, Mon Ange…"

Her eyes widened; her face seemed to pale.

"Why…" she whispered after a moment. "Why did you call me that?"

"Does it displease you?"

"No – it's not that. It's only you have never said it before, not since – not ever..." She pressed her lips together, stifling further words, as if afraid to say more.

"You are an angel, my Angel, and the name suits you well." Loath to move his hand away, one finger gently continued along its creamy trail.

A conflict of emotions swam within her mysterious dark eyes, rich desire taking precedence. In a sudden move she gripped the lapels of his cloak, bringing him back down to her.

"Make love to me," she whispered in the moment before her mouth sought his, as did her tongue in her quest for utter fulfillment. "This is what I want, my Forest Phantom. To feel you deep inside me…"

One of her hands smoothed down his shirt to the bulge pressing hard against his hose that made evident he wished for the same. She smiled a little against his lips and stroked the bold outline, as far as she could reach with the constricted position of lying on her back beneath him.

His hand left her warmth as he broke away from their kiss with a little indrawn hiss. The complaint died on her tongue when his mouth found her throat, his teeth scraping the tendon there even as he nudged her hand aside and loosed himself. She grabbed hold of his swollen manhood before he could manage, her fingers taking a moment to revel in its hot, silken structure before she placed him against her still throbbing flesh. With a swift plunge, he buried himself deep, laying absolute claim to her body.

She gasped; he groaned, and for a moment, they grew still, as close as they could lie together while exulting in the unique fulfillment of being complete. Their eyes caught and held, a wealth of unspoken emotion displayed between them by the nearby flames. Finding scant satisfaction in clutching his shirt beneath the cloak, she impatiently pulled up the back of his tunic until her hands met the preferred texture and heat of his scarred flesh.

The skies lightened from blackest ink to dusky blue, a herald to the dawn that soon rippled in misty ribbons of mauve and violet, as slowly he rocked inside her. Overcome, she matched his movements, their breathing becoming more laboured with the passionate ascent of their tempo…

A rosy glow illumined the land as they found blissful release in their ardor, while the heavens above exploded in the brilliant hues of a new sunrise.

xXx

With such a captivating entrance into the day, their travels, though tiring, achieved an ease formerly absent and were quite enjoyable. They conversed about myriad topics as they walked including, much to Christine's surprise, music of that day and its composers.

In the afternoon, they rested by a shallow brook, eating a slew of ripe berries they collected during their trek. Christine took that time to freshen herself, splashing water upon her face and neck, lifting her wild mane of hair to pat the icy droplets there as well. Erik also knelt by the brook to fill his leather flask. In a burst of girlish mischief, she batted the water his way, watching as it splashed him head to cloak.

She giggled, but when he swiftly turned to look at her, his icy eyes flaring behind the mask, instantly she regretted her childish act.

"I'm sorry, Maestro," she said when the silence became unnerving. "It was only in – FUN!"

The last word she squealed as a shower of water sprayed her face. She rubbed the cold droplets from her eyes, which widened as she stared. His expression remained as inanimate as his mask, and then a slow smile curled his lips.

"The brook is not deep enough to bathe, my dear, but if you require a good washing, I'll not disappoint you."

Christine squealed and laughed, uselessly evading the continual and rapid streams of water he directed her way, her own poor attempts barely meeting their mark before she needed to run a few steps or duck again. This continued until she slipped in the damp grass, his hands instantly at her waist and breaking any impact as they fell together to the ground.

Instantly he rolled her beneath him, and she gave a little shiver.

"Are you cold, ma damoiselle?"

"I'm all wet," she complained with a pout, then blushed at the wicked gleam that lit his eyes as the atmosphere quite suddenly shifted from playful into something much more intense. Her breath caught and held as his hand slipped beneath her rumpled gown and cupped her bare womanhood. The air trapped in her lungs left in a violent rush as his wicked, wonderful finger burrowed deep within her soft folds.

"Ah, yes, so you are," he purred in his rich velvet tone. "We must remedy that at once."

Her slightly embarrassed giggle altered into a protracted gasp as he put his promise into immediate action...

It was some time before they left the grassy area by the brook, with hair and clothes damp and disheveled from their carefree amusements by the water, but both of them quite deliciously warmed from their passion play to care.

Never had Christine known such happiness than she experienced since marrying Erik. Despite being imprisoned in an ancient century full of peril and running for their very lives, she daily knew bliss. She almost laughed aloud at the incongruity of such a thing. True, life would be ideal if her husband remembered his actual identity and would reveal his hidden self to her, without the mask, no longer putting up barriers between them. Nonetheless, her heart was light, and the birdsong in the trees serenaded her with lilting music, befitting of her mood.

Afternoon drifted into early evening, the skies taking on an opalescent sheen as the sun hid behind a thick cloud bank. They broke through the forest of thick trees, and just like that, Christine's blithe mood evaporated as she felt the first stirring of dread.

"Why have you brought me here?" she whispered in horrified disbelief, swiftly turning from the unwelcome sight before them to seek the answer in his eyes.

He stared straight ahead, avoiding her anxious gaze.

She put an insistent hand to his arm.

"Maestro! Please, tell me…why?"

Her last word came out almost in a whimper, and Erik covered her hand with his own, at last turning his head to look at her. Christine desperately sought to read the emotion in his eyes that glimmered like polished steel.

"You have no reason to fear," he reassured quietly. "It will be alright. Come…"

She searched his expression, vainly trying to decipher his reason. His lips were neither drawn tight in anger nor tilted upward in ease, and his eyes gave nothing away. He unfastened her tightly clenched fingers from his sleeve and kept her hand held in his.

"Come, Christine," he quietly commanded a second time.

With little choice but to follow where he led, she nervously walked with him down the grassy hill and toward the ominous circle of tall standing stones ...

xXx

A/N: I loved that love scene in the show Outlander on the night before Jamie took Claire to Craigh na Dun, and since bits of my PotO tale are sort of a take/twist on that, I had to mirror the scene, in my own way. ;-)