The labyrinth's darkness no longer blinding her, she was brought again into the light, if only for a moment. It dimmed again, but didn't threaten to veil them completely. Leading her through a bending, narrow passageway he gave a subtle smile at how the sound of his voice echoed against the stone. Acoustics always pleased him, especially when there was pleasant music, or song being echoed.

Once they were beyond the stone, the length of a great lake lay before them; the waters warm, a pillowing, swirling mist lingering upon the surface, crawling across the bare stone to reach out to them as they passed, only to shrink back with the gentle gust of air from their movements. With the way they licked up the length of the horses legs, it was hard to tell where the mists ended and the equine began.

He turned to her, assisting her from the back of the horse before removing his hands as if he had been seared by the mere contact. Hesitantly he allowed leather clad fingers to capture her hand again before he turned away from her. Drawing her along the shortness of a dock, he settled his foot in the base of the nearby skiff, drawing it close with a tap of the side against the wooden planks.

He turned to her then, studying her with the quiet softness of amber eyes, then he lured her hand to a lift, wordlessly gesturing her to climb within. There was the brief thought of silencing the lingering hum, exposing her to the silent deception he had built over the past few months, but he couldn't. Not now. She was so close. "Careful," he practically sung to her.

Obediently, she followed. If this creature .. no, this man had in mind to lead her toward the very center of the earth, she would surely follow. Up ahead Christine mustered the knowledge to identify the source of the strange glow. It appeared to be a lake. She had oft heard that one ran directly beneath Garnier's proverbial palace, but never before had she seen it. Besides, what would a simple chorus girl hope to achieve from seeing perhaps one of the most fantastical sights.

Its gray-green waters merged with the slick stones that surrounded it, disappearing into the darkened distance of the catacombs. The mist seemed a part of the water itself, a sort of liquid source stacked atop another. The ethereal glow of this dreamy River Styx illuminated the shore, and she, the soul of one long dead from reality, approached it with her towering captor at her side. But ... captor? Why not her Erik? The voices were the same, if not by their quality more so by how close it was now to her – as it had oft been in the Opera House itself, though disembodied and ominous. It still placed her beneath a heavy torpor, lured her into its biding with the subtlety of a siren.

She made again to lift her enthralled gaze, only to find his eyes staring back at her. In that moment, in the split second his amber gaze met her own, she shivered. Such weight, such unspoken pain and loneliness she witnessed in their depths, one eye void of seclusion, the other peering from behind the rim of a glowing mask. That gaze was enough to bend her pliant form into submission, and accompanied by the voice, she practically bounded into the moored boat, what appeared, to Christine, to be a gondola of sorts, akin to the kind visiting patrons from Venice had once told her of.

Once within the boat, she lowered herself to the floor of the boat slowly, only to find her fall cushioned by ... pillows. Comfortable, velvet cushions, to be exact. Even beneath the surface, away from the light of day, she bemused that this man certainly had taste. Not once in their trek had he touched her in more than a gentlemanly way, his hand never straying from her own clutch, his words never softened or coy to perhaps reveal deeper, unspoken intentions upon this innocent, virtuous Prima Donna. Funny – such terms rarely ever went together. Perhaps Christine was an exception to many rules, in more ways than one.

Though he held vicious restraint over himself, there was one thing that could betray him; those eyes. Less than an hour ago they had been molten, tremulous and threatening. Now, oh but now he could only look upon her with absolute adoration. After she had climbed in, he released her hand and lowered to gather the elaborate pole that rested upon the bottom. Slipping the length of the black pole within the equally black water, the glossy surface broke, shattering into rippled images only to be covered again by the gentle, masking mist.

Ensuring she had her balance and that she rested, he pressed away from the dock with his foot, and using the length of the pole he continued that forward momentum. What will you do with your sweet Persephone now, Hades? that cynical voice questioned, heard over his own entrancing hum. Irony was becoming a common thing this evening. Now he compared himself to a common tale, though Demeter was no beautiful maiden. No, he was that blue eyed boy on the surface.

His fingers clenched, twisting against the pole's carvings, then loosened as he exhaled slowly. He wouldn't think of him, not when she employed his thoughts. Her mere presence was soothing. "Since that night," he stated, answering even though she hadn't asked a question.

She clutched the wooden edges of the skiff as by his weight the surface was rocked softly on the water's surface. As they pushed forward, something drew Christine to examine the waters. An unconscious habit, maybe. She had grown to love the sea; such memories she held of it, the red scarf merely one of those.

She strangely needed his cloak no longer, warmth enough coming from her fading fear and unease. She shrugged it from her shoulders, leaning forward to examine the murky waters as they moved on in silence. Silence, that is, until his voice broke the heavy air. She half turned her form, gazing up at him from over her shoulder with questions in her eyes. In the movement, the front of her robe had strayed to reveal a sliver of flesh at her thigh, where satin stocking met gartered belt. She noticed not the exposure, and in her virtually tranquilized state, it was doubtful she would.

The silence lay heavy beyond the circle of sound that permeated with his voice. There was only the gentle lap of water against the boat's sides as he pressed the pole through, not even the thump of the wood to the stone below had made its presence known. White swirls parted willingly for them, only to shut close, defending their path from ever being found, and in those short times that the mist broke too far, he studied her reflection within the water's surface. When she turned, though, his eyes did as well, meeting her own and holding there.

"I have needed you with me," he continued after what seemed like an eternity. Too much, he didn't want to overwhelm the woman-child. He already believed himself a fool for bringing her down here, and didn't need to force himself further down that road, or her from him, with silly little notions of ... feelings. As much as he would love to deny it, it couldn't be ignored, that sensation of thawing ice within his chest every time she looked at him. Only twice now with awareness, but so many times while she observed herself in the mirror.

Inwardly he winced. What would she think if she realized he was not what she wished him to be, and had been watching her all this time behind that reflective surface? She would hate him, think him disturbed. He couldn't let this spell be broken.

Her gentle lips parted, releasing a tremulous sigh that preceded his words. Needed her? Was this her punishment from Heaven, for daring to care for ... to love ... such a celestial being? By damning her sight to present the illusion of the masked man who haunted the Opera House? Was that why he had spoken to her such words, to shut her eyes away from the truth for it was not what she wished to see?

Truth seemed irrelevant, a foreign oddity, in this underground kingdom of music and of unending night. Perhaps it was, then, that her Angel, her Erik, was nothing more than a mere mortal. She watched him carefully, her eyes lost in the depths of his own, swallowed whole by the both tender and tremulous worlds within them.

Christine turned once more to take in her surroundings, though she was seeing she was hardly absorbing anything, as if her mind willed her to feel nothing but the numbing power of his gaze. The world here was ... startling. The distant light source flickered off the surface of the water, and as she leaned over the edge of the gondola, her reflection was broken by the momentum they were gaining and shattered by the light that broke upon the low catacomb ceiling. As she studied her distorted reflection – the dark bundle of her curls, the pallor of her neck and collar bone, the softened hue of her cheeks and lips – she let her mind wander upon the meaning of his words: 'I have needed you.'

Time held no meaning down in his world. Not even the metronome had reign. It could have been only a few moments, or hours that it took to come to the split within the 'road' of the lake, and he pressed the boat right. Always right. Only he knew this forward path to his lair. While the Madame had an idea of where to go, she didn't know the extent of the labyrinth that would be before any interlopers. And the horror, the absolute horror should one roam the wrong way, only to find themselves within a forest. A forest, underground? Illusions. Reflections in a bloom of mirrors; the bane of his existence. To him it was poetic justice, using the very thing that hurt him to hurt others. He had long outgrown his hatred for mirrors, and now used them as he would.

Lifting his eyes from her for the first time during the whole trip, he docked the gondola against the stone, causing it to skid up just a bit against the bank to ensure that it wouldn't slip back into the water. Laying the pole down he climbed from the velvet shrouded bottom and held out his hand for her to take again. More light cast dancing shadows along the walls. There was no fear that any would come this far. There were just too many paths to take. Candelabras doused in wax held half dead candles, whose flames seemed to come alive with his presence.

Down and still further down did it seem they had traveled, in truth but seven stories beneath the Opera House itself, deep within the undergrounds of lively Paris. Indeed, that place seemed so far from her now, almost nonexistent as she allowed her mind to journey through this new and strange world. He, this modern-day Charon, held forth his hand after they had docked. Her form rocked with the impact.

She stood and took in again the gentlemanly gesture, and both willing and unafraid lifted herself from the boat with ease. Her slippers met the surface of the stone floor beneath, the partial exposure of her slender limb covered once more as she stood. Her palm rested in his own, the real source of his control residing now in his eyes, whereas it was that once that Voice was the potion of her temptation and submission. The lethal combination of both proved her a willing slave and servant to his music, he having steered her to the very seat of it's throne.

So small, so delicate. He wanted no more than to hold her, but was afraid that she'd be broken within his grasp, and fall away like dust from a crumbling ember. He had to treat her as delicately as ash; hold softly, but suffer not in letting her go, to watch her float away, never to return. Out of the boat, he stepped back away from her, urging her with a light curl of fingertips against the inside of her palm, then reluctantly he turned his eyes away from her as he passed between two towering candelabras and through a second narrow hallway that would lead directly into his lair.

With their travel, at this depth, night had slowly unfurled its splendor, bringing her into his world with the welcoming caress of chaste touch and song. He glanced back toward her once, then slowly turning his head, a light smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. It seemed so out of place, the thick oaken door, until it was opened and pressed aside, allowing them into the partially flooded lair. Larger than the cavern a story above, the expanse was designed much like a house one would find upon the surface.

Richly decorated, candles brought a soft glow, chasing away shadow, and luring them close, all in one flicker. Every available natural surface had atop it a candle or two, glowing along side numerous other fixtures. The jagged walls appeared, under the radiance of the candles, to be but ornate tapestry and drapes. It was an atmosphere of underworld fantasy, truly. It wasn't until now did he release her hand, his other giving a slow close of the door, shutting them away from the waking world.

"Do you know why I have brought you here, Christine? To this world I reign over? This kingdom?" Though the hum was gone from his throat, his words still carried that soft lilt of music. The cloak had been left behind at the boat, but it was the least of his concerns. Politely he lifted his hand, drawing down the fedora for it to be placed upon a nearby, highly ornate table.

Would this journey never end? The spell was wearing thin for her, or so it seemed. Rather, it was now that she grew accustomed to his gentle song, ever fixed in her mind and indeed, her soul. She followed him past the candelabras, her gaze straying at last from his profile to take in the grand expanse of the cavern. Unlike the secretive hideaways of childish trinkets stashed about here and there, this section of the ever expanding catacombs was carefully decorated and designed.

She felt warmed the moment she entered, and upon his closing of the door, free to dwell without interruption within. Christine stepped forward at last allowed to see his face.Rather, a portion of it. The rest – spanning over most of his brow save for a third and completely concealing his cheek bone, jaw and the area around his eye – was shielded by the smooth and unblemished surface of a glaringly white mask. She had heard of those who had seen his face; they had all drawn back in fear. Yet, Christine felt now, more than ever, a lingering curiosity to find who the man behind the mask truly was.

Of course, an emotion akin to betrayal had stricken her when she found that what had seemed to be her Angel of Music, was hardly an Angel at all but ... a man, or what appeared to be a man anyway. Oh, for heaven's pity upon the girl, what was she to believe? Too conflicted, too estranged by her senses, Christine found it much easier to simply ... surrender. And that she did; to his words, to the depth and burning weight of his eyes, to his powerful presence alone. She did not answer his question, only stood before him, as still and as silent as a patient in a hypnosis experiment.