A Father's Promise Chapter 25, a phantom of the opera fanfic

Author's Note: Well, time to put you all out of your misery. Sorry this update took so long. I'm back home now, so I have to share the net (I think I've said this before, but apologies again).

Thanks again to Soignante, TalithaJ, steelelf, osdfnsdaf, Busanda, WindPhoenix, Squealing Lit. Fan, Mystery Guest (mega thanks for another mega review), mildetryth and D. Jenks for their latest reviews.

Hope you all like and approve this one. It is something else you've been asking for. Thanks and enjoy! Nedjmet.

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 25

"Who's there?"

She had thought the music a dream. The voice was so beautiful; she was inclined to stick with that belief.

"Have you forgotten?"

It seemed to be coming from a different side of the theatre now. She whipped her head around, trying to see anything that could indicate a person. It was useless – what with all the seats and tiers and boxes, there was a myriad of hiding places. She decided to play it out.

"Forgotten? If I had heard such a beautiful voice before, I know I'd remember."

"Thank you." The voice carried a smile, as it came from somewhere in front of her this time. "But it is not that of which I speak."

"Who are you? Do not toy with me." She answered, growing frustrated with whatever the masquerade was.

Silence.

She was ready to storm out and brave the rain but stopped. The sound of her father's requiem being played with such a bitter sweetness had her instead collapsing to the floor. This time, she didn't manage to hold back a sob as she called out in a choked whisper to her father. The quiet extended once more after the final note. Christine remained on the stage floor, her head bowed, praying that she was not being deceived.

"Have you forgotten?" The question came again.

She raised her head, and with a trembling voice called out to the dark.

"Angel?" A pause. Had she frightened him away?

"Yes, child. I am here."

She sobbed and let the tears flow.

It was the first time he had said her name. It was a beautiful sound on his lips and it felt wonderful saying it – it felt right. She asked for him again. No. For this to work, she had to be the one to name him; consciously and of her own inspiration. She had to name him once more.

So she appreciated his voice. Granted there was little he could not do with it; to have a devotee of music appreciate it – enough! She appreciated it, and it was because it was she that he appreciated the compliment. He had no intention of toying with her though! He had to make her see that, and so he drew his bow lovingly across the strings again.

The requiem was truly a thing of beauty. It had not taken him long to work out the score – her performance was etched in both his mind and his heart, and it would not be soon forgotten. In his preparations for this, he had searched through every record in the Ravelle, every record that he possessed. He had utilised every source that he could think of, and he had not been able to find the piece anywhere. He had concluded that it must have been an original of Daaë's. Why else would she have sung it before the little stone?

His theory was corroborated somewhat when she sank to the floor. He was tempted to stop playing – even though he loathed leaving music unfinished – when he saw her reaction, but he knew that he had to continue if he was to have her attention focused completely on him; that each note had to be played to completion if he was to draw her under his wing and make her his.

He let the dying whispers weave their final magic before he asked her again.

"Have you forgotten?"

She raised her head. How is it she managed to be lovely even when in turmoil?

"Angel?"

He closed his eyes. She had answered. With one word, she had done the impossible. With one sweet, blessed word, she had won him.

"Yes, child. I am here."

And he knew without a doubt that it would always be so.

Her tears flowed freely – on her left side, anyway. She didn't care if she looked a fool: he was here! She had waited for so long, and finally her father had kept his promise. He hadn't lied to her. The Angel was here!

Wasn't he?

Could this all be some cruel trick? After all, she had waited such a long time, gone through so much, and wanted it to be true so badly; if it was somebody's idea of a joke then she was definitely making it too easy for them.

"You weep. I had not thought my presence would be so unwelcome."

The voice seemed to be fading.

"No!" She cried out in desperation. Trick or not, she could not lose whoever it was before she found out the truth. "Forgive me; it's just that I've waited so long."

"Yes, your devotion to me is unmistakable, yet you forsook music. You cannot believe in me and reject the gift I would give."

"I could not sing."

"I know you lost your voice, and that it has returned only recently. You were right in not straining it too soon. But you turned your back on music in its other forms, consigning yourself to a world of silence. The loss you suffered was tremendous indeed, but turning from true beauty cannot have eased it."

"It didn't. It made it harder. But I knew no music which didn't remind me of what was lost. I didn't want to abandon music, but the only kind I knew was the one I couldn't bear. Music has returned to me though."

She paused there, realising she had given much away. If this was the Angel of Music, then he would not need further explanation.

"Indeed. And you have accepted it well. Still, I had to wait until your faith was fully restored before I could listen to the pleas of your father and come to you."

"My father?"

"Yes, a true believer in music. The earth does not mourn the loss of him as it should, but the heavens delight to have him. He taught you well. There are few now who believe in me as you have. Had you not turned your back on music, his promise would have been honoured much sooner."

More tears silently fell. No one outside of the Girys' and Uncle Gustave knew of her father's promise. There was no one else here who knew the extent to which she had ignored music.

"Forgive me." She begged in a whisper.

"All is forgiven," Her head snapped up. It was as though the voice had spoken directly into her ear; but there was only darkness, "provided your dedication remains true now."

"How can I prove that?"

"You are a child of Music, Christine, and it is time for you to remember. Your faith in me has been proven, and so I have decided to teach you. Come here at eight each night and I shall instruct you."

Eight? The nights were getting longer; soon she would be walking home from classes under darkening skies. Coming here so late would mean venturing out into the darkness every night. She frantically reached around in her mind for some more practical reason she could use.

"What if someone were to see?"

"You need not concern yourself with that. I have been watching over you Christine, waiting for you to return. I will continue to keep you safe, so long as you remain true to me."

He had known just what to say. Now, so did she. She stood.

"You are the Angel of Music. I could not do otherwise."

"Good, Christine. I am Music's Angel and you are her child. Together, we shall reach up and show the world what Music truly is." She could feel her cheeks turning red. Whether he was stating his intentions or he actually meant it, the complement was a tremendous one.

"Go now, child. The rain has eased off. You should be able to make it back if you hurry."

"Thank you . . . Angel."

She said with a smile, before turning and hurrying off home. So intent was she on obeying the instruction, that she did not see the shadow that appeared in one of the boxes, reaching down to her from the darkness.

She was crying? Had her hopes been built upon this so much? She had to have grown up with music as well as those stories she had mentioned to Little Giry, which would make her faith a little more understandable. But to truly believe with such fervour? He had to snap her out of. Her tears would not do her voice any good, and she had shed far too many as it was.

He cast his voice so that it faded from her ears as he spoke. She cried out for him. She apologised, but said little. Clearly, he still had to convince her.

"Yes, your devotion to me is unmistakable, yet you forsook music. You cannot believe in me and reject the gift I would give."

She could not reject him. Whether this worked or not, that much was certain.

"I could not sing."

He cursed the fact. But wait; she was probing.

The silence she had lived in those first weeks would have driven him mad were it not for his lair. The rebuke was justified, and if she responded well to his harshness, it would make it all the easier to teach her.

She still didn't believe. Or at least she had doubts. She was leaving too many doors open for him to err. Could it be he was actually thankful Giry had aroused his curiosity so much?

"Indeed. And you have accepted it well. Still, I had to wait until your faith was fully restored before I could listen to the pleas of your father and come to you." If that didn't work, there was little that would.

It worked.

The words he spoke of her father were heartfelt – no matter that he was on poor terms with the heavens – for he had been a true musician, and he sorely regretted having only heard him play once.

She asked him for forgiveness. An angel seeking pardon from a demon? Could it be she was asking forgiveness for her unbelief? Whatever the reason, he granted her request and took the opportunity, speaking into her ear, regretting that the rest of him was not that close.

"What if someone were to see?"

A reasonable concern, but there was more than that in her eyes. He would have to learn where this fear of hers stemmed from. If she were to truly accept him, then it would make matters very awkward.

"You need not concern yourself with that. I have been watching over you Christine, waiting for you to return. I will continue to keep you safe, so long as you remain true to me."

He had tried everything the conversation had allowed. It was now all down to her: whether or not she would accept what he was trying to give. Waiting was torture, and she had been teaching him the lesson well. She stood.

"You are the Angel of Music. I could not do otherwise."

The bargain was sealed. His hope was secure.

She was his.

"Good, Christine. I am Music's Angel and you are her child. Together, we shall reach up and show the world what Music truly is."

He could not recall the last time he had spoken with such a genuine warmth. He had answered her prayers, and she had answered is in return. She was the angel – and a blushing one at that. He listened carefully, checking whether or not it was safe for her to leave. Right now, it was only her promise that she would return that meant he let her.

"Go now, child. The rain has eased off. You should be able to make it back if you hurry."

She did not like the dark, and the rain would probably fall again this night. She might as well have the excuse to hurry.

"Thank you . . . Angel."

She had called him 'Angel'. No doubts, no questions, no illusions. She had consciously called him angel. He reached down for her as she left, wanting her to stay. As soon as the door shut and he saw his hand over the edge of the box, he drew back. How had the Ghost gotten so careless? He knew the answer. It was hurrying back to his house with the promises of an angel.

For better or worse, he was now bound to that role. The irony of it!

He turned and ran along the tunnels – of which there were more in this building than any other of the Ravelle.

He had said he would watch over her, and he was a man of his word.

Just as he was bound, so was she. So long as he was an angel to her, she would be true to him. And he did not allow harm to befall anything that was his.