Authors Note - My previous upload was garbled! I was inspired to write again after watching "The Show Must Go On" special 25th anniversary performance on YouTube. I hope this brings you as much joy to read as I had writing it. Please do review if you are reading and enjoying, and I'll make sure I'll update the story to bring this tale to a close. Enjoy :)
The tremulous light of the single candle flickered, throwing his masked face into uncertain shadows. He was often unreadable, with the mask or without, and she could make nothing of his expression in this light. She was vaguely aware of the thunder that rumbled somewhere distant overhead, and the wind that howled through the desolate and decaying rooms of the Opera Populaire. But it was the sound of her heart that she could hear the most; the blood rushing in her ears, her skin burning despite the wet and the cold, and the roar of the pulse that pounded in her neck as he looked at her...nothing more...just looked.
He regarded her, frozen as if she was one of the friezes on the chapel wall, motionless yet incandescent with some inner light. It was fragile, concealed in the shadowy darkness of the cavern but it was there; there in the beads of water that tumbled from her wet curls, down, down the side of her face towards her exposed collar bone. It was there in the goose-pimpled flesh of her arms; in the dark fire of her eyes, and in the way her bottom lip trembled with...the cold? Anticipation? As it always was when she was near, he was keenly aware of every angle of her body, every curve and plane, revealed so much more with the wetness of her clothing that he found his composure threatened with every shuddering intake of breath. But he must take command of his senses. He could not be ruled by his passions. She had made her choice.
"Viscountess," his voice was soft but cut like a blade as he bent low in a mock bow. "An honour." He straightened, turning away to walk over to the desk that was littered with the stumps of candles, sheets of abandoned music, and the decanter of wine. She watched as he poured himself a glass, threw his head back as he drunk it in one swift gulp, before pouring himself another and turning to her to say, "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"
She had come so far, she had learnt so much of herself, of the nature of love and of men, and the true nature of her feelings for her Angel of Music and yet, at this moment, she was still so afraid. Yet it was this fear that made her bold; bolder than she had been, could ever have been, during those years in the Opera Populaire when she was simply Little Lottie, the ingenue, the orphan, with talent yes but no way of knowing what it meant or how to use it. It was this fear of denying herself that what she truly was, truly felt, here in the darkness where it had all unfurled so long ago that propelled her to where the Phantom was standing, to take the glass of wine he held from his hand and drain its contents herself.
What was this game, he thought to himself, confusion and amusement vying for dominance as he watched her place the glass back on the table? He followed her gaze down to the pages upon pages of abandoned music, blotted with ink and scratched out revisions and annotations. "If you've come in search of a new role I'm afraid you will be disappointed." He snatched up some of the sheets and thrust them towards her, paying no heed to the pages that scattered to the floor with his swift movements as he snarled, "You have your new part; doting and faithful wife."
A peel of thunder reverberated through the caverns. Christine saw, as she always could see she realised now, beyond the mask behind which he hid; the anger, the betrayal, the bitterness of the years of torment to clearly see the man behind the mask. He had told her once that fear would turn to love and now she finally understood – in a way that she could never have known before her nights with Raoul- what it meant to both long for both angel and monster, for man and phantom. She refused to hide it from herself or from him a moment longer as she fixed her eyes upon him and began to whisper the notes of a familiar song;
"You have brought me...to that moment when words run dry..."
"No, Christine, no!" He pushed past her, desperate to escape the seduction of the melody that he had composed for her, could have composed for no other but her.
"To that moment when speech disappears into silence...silence..." She pursued him as he went, both with her actions and her song, clambering over the rocks to where he now paced, prowling like a caged animal, confronted at each turn by his own refracted reflection, trapped by a thousand faces in masks.
"I have come here..." He saw her closing in behind him in the mirror, her face shrouded in shadow but he could glimpse, could he see, the passion that had risen in a flush across her face? No! His resolve screamed at him as he buried his head in his hands. This was yet another part she was playing.
"Hardly knowing the reason why..." Christine felt the familiar swell of the music, his music, rushing from the pit of her stomach and enveloping every part of her. She had hardly permitted herself to sing since her time with Raoul, afraid of the unbidden thoughts and feelings that it would inspire. Yet now, in the dark with her Angel she gave passion full rein, and her voice became assured as she continued to sing, "In my mind I've already imagined...our bodies entwining..."
He raised his face from his hands when she laid a hand on his shoulder; he could not help it and it was there, plain to read in spite of the darkness. The imagined images came to his mind – the frantic heat of entangled leg and limb, the press of flesh against flesh, his mouth against her neck – and he felt his resolve melting under her gaze.
"Defenseless and silent..." She placed another hand on her shoulder and allowed herself to grip him slightly as she moved even closer, their bodies now only inches apart as she continued to hold his gaze in the mirror.
"Now I am here with you...no second thoughts..." He felt the infinitesimal gap between them finally close as she pressed herself fully against his back. He felt every curve that her wet clothes were clinging to and he allowed himself to close his eyes to commit the sensation to memory as he felt her hot breath rasp against his ear as she sang darkly, "I've decided...decided..."
"Past the point of no return..." The thunder rumbled as she moved her hands from his shoulders, pressing her palms firmly downwards as she began to explore his chest. "No going back now..." Her hands moved from cloth to flesh as she found the gap where his shirt had parted, felt the heat of him under her hands and felt the pounding of his heart as she touched him. "Our passion-play has now, at last, begun..."
Her hands were cold but intent as he felt her fingers rake his skin. He gave an inaudible moan as her hands found his shoulders once more.
"Past all thought of right or wrong..." With a slightly pressure she begun to turn him, no longer satisfied with not being able to see his face. He allowed himself to be turned and he felt a devilish thrill that when he finally faced her. He heard her voice falter, hitch with arousal and not with fear, as she managed to whisper out "One final question..."
Although she knew the melody, knew the words, as they sung in her veins, she found it almost impossible now she was facing him to know how to continue. He placed his hands firmly on the top of her arms, pulling her into him with a swift movement that made her gasp. Her mouth was dry but it was no matter as he confidently took up the notes of the refrain she had forsaken.
"How long should we two wait before we're one?" He was surrounded, consumed with the sensation of her and although he wanted to kiss her, he wanted this to last. He snaked his hand up her back, never once allowing even the smallest of spaces to open up between their bodies. His hand found her hair, burrowing deep in the thick tendrils as he grasped it firmly, tilting her head slightly to expose the throbbing pulse of her neck.
"When will the blood begin to race?" His voice was more of a whisper than a song now as his lips trailed her jaw, her neck. She felt the shoulder of her wet gown fall, and with a powerful hand still firmly pressed against the small of her back he bent his head further to kiss her collar.
"The sleeping bud burst into bloom?" This was no longer a song he realised - this was a fervent, passionate plea. He would burn the whole world to have her, to possesses her, to claim what she was so freely giving; finally acknowledging the true nature of the passion and darkness that drew them towards one another. "When will the flames, at last, consume us?"
Without being conscious of moving Christine felt the back of her legs press against the softness of the bed, and with a rush of hunger she had never felt before she reached up to untie the ribbons that fastened the front of her gown.
"Past the point of no return..." Her voice was low, full-throated, not the soprano he had helped to mold but something more natural and primal. And oh how he loved her, wanted her the more for it, and he did not take his eyes from her as he too began the process of undressing.
"The final threshold..." He came to her once more, the thrill of flesh on flesh, as she pulled him closer, always closer, as he loomed over her and onto the bed.
"The bridge is crossed..." She panted as his hands were everywhere, raking her skin, claiming her, as she trembled at the anticipation.
"So stand and watch it burn..." His voice was so low in the dark she could barely hear it. But then her mouth found his and he was lost, utterly lost, in the scent, in the feel, in the taste of her that the final lines of their fateful duet was lost into the night. He could not tell where he started and she begun. She felt never more herself and yet utterly lost, lost to the music and the man who she now knew she would risk her very soul to be with. He was not cold, but burnt with a fantastic intensity that only now, now that he was possessing her so utterly, could she truly know. She was not a distant muse but a woman of flesh, and of blood, and of such incredible passions that he knew with every moan he made her utter that she was his, only his, lost to the music of the night. There was not thought here only sensation; no more reality only dreams in the dark. And with a final, fierce cry they found each other, falling together with sweat release as the storm eased and the candle extinguished, leaving nothing but silver smoke in the dark.