Timor Mortis Conturbat Me

"The Fear of Death Disturbs Me"

A/N: Yeah, so, I've seen it twice and am now officially ocd over Phantom (not that I wasn't before, I mean come on, when a girl gets the mask tattooed to her back, that kinda indicates obsession.). But I digress. I could not seem to get Raoul into my head for this part, and so, I am consigning the little twit (goddess help me but he's difficult to write!) to perdition. I don't hate him or anything, but I can't make him into something besides a gung-ho, Prince Charming wannabe, and I don't want to do that. So, on to greener pastures, and more interesting anti-heroes. I am playing with changing POV's in this one, so bear with me. Please read and review! It bolsters my confidence and keeps me going till I can get to go see the movie again (I have to drive 40 some miles to get to either of the cities near me playing Phantom) and/or feed my crush (1st movie star crush at 23! be proud I went this long! And who better to crush on than the Phantom, I ask you?) I've used a few quotes from the musical/movie, to add a bit of atmosphere, and to help when I couldn't find my own words for it.Enjoy.

Warmest regards, K.S.

It was time. The stage was set, quite literally. And the players, on and off stage, assembled.

She had transformed, he thought from his vantage point, from an angel to a siren. And she lured him, so unwittingly, into further madness. It had been so amazingly simple. Of course he knew they would kill him. But to be near her one last time, to make that final plea! He should have known. Reaching out to her was like trying to catch a candle's flame. It would inevitably scorch him every time. Piangi was dispatched with ease; and he felt no pity for the fat tenor who had treated his precious gem so poorly. She burned him, branding him as hers, no matter that she did not want him. He belonged to her, that was so painfully clear. The last song, it was a seduction, oh yes, but she seduced him just as much, if not more so than the reverse. And so he sang on, till there was no Don Juan, just him.

He vaguely registered that there were women weeping quite openly as he began what he saw as his last hope for salvation. Christine herself had tears glimmering in her limpid (what a fun word to say, limpid!) eyes. He took her small hands in his, shaking as he finally told her, for all the world to hear, that he loved her. And she put her hand to his face! Her touch was so very gentle and soft. Once more, she cloaked her cruelty with that look of wide-eyed innocence. She ripped the mask from his face, along with the wig.

God, not again. This time, with all of Paris watching! He turned, blindly seeking some escape from the hardness in her eyes. The stunned silence was followed a moment later by the first of the screams. By the shouted cries of "Monster!", he knew he had to get away. There was the contingency escape. He would take it. Along with his fair gaoler. The floor fell beneath him as he gripped her tight, holding her as close to him as he ever had.

An added diversion was needed. It was a very good thing that he really did not care for that garish chandelier. Too opulent by far. The management could surely afford a new one. A few ropes cut and down it went. But he didn't look. He had gone to far to look back.

"Let go of me! Please, please let go!" She was crying now, great fat diamond tears dripping down her pretty face. Oh how he wanted to revel in those tears!

"I suppose you would have stood there and let them shoot me. Move, damn it! We have unfinished business, you and I."

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" He kept pulling her downwards, towards the inevitable tomb of his making. They had reached the boat. He shoved her in, too angry to be gentle with her.

"Why? Before all of Paris, Christine! Wasn't once enough for you? The horror of the first time I saw my reflection was ample..." He broke off. If he said more, the hurt would overwhelm the anger. He clung to the anger, letting her know how much it hurt was far more dangerous. "Do you hate me that much?" he asked quietly.

She did not answer, her face turned from him. He poled them angrily through the flooded maze of passages. She wept silently, trying not to think on what he had asked. Did she hate him? He had killed Piangi for no other reason than the tenor had been in his way. He would kill Raoul without a qualm of conscience. Christine could not bear it if something happened to Raoul because of her foolishness. This man who, with every movement, shook with fury, had no intention of letting her go. Not now, not ever.

"Would that be such a terrible thing?" some sly little imp whispered from a far corner of her mind. "After all, he's tall and well-made, shame about the face. But if he keeps the mask on..." Christine quashed the imp immediately. But the words had gotten to her. None of this would ever had happened if she hadn't ripped away the mask. If she hadn't fled from him in terror just because of what he had looked like. He had pleaded with her, implored her to not judge him because of his face. And hadn't she done just that? God help her, he loved her! And she hadn't known what to do with that love, except to run from it. It burned too hot, frightening her straight into the arms of the young, handsome Vicomte de Chagny. She couldn't run now, not anymore. Here was her Angel, her teacher, the Phantom, and he would not be denied any longer.

He docked the boat and pulled her out roughly. He lifted the curtain to the bedroom, and laid out in all it's splendor, was the wedding dress that had adorned the dummy on her first trip down.

"I believe that you will find it is your size, Mademoiselle." He said coldly. She stood there, mute, eyes just as angry as his own.

"Put it on, if you please. Or would you rather I assisted you in that? I thought not." He let her enter, and dropped the curtain down again, shielding her from his view. She almost laughed at his rather ridiculous notions of modesty.

"It's not as if he doesn't plan to rid me of the dress later," She thought bitterly. There had been a time she would have gone to him without any fear, but that was long over. He was too violent, too ugly, too everything. There was nothing to him save extremes. And so she put it on.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her emerge from the bedroom, wearing the wedding gown. Oh God, she was beautiful! How he loved her! And she hated him. But this had gone too far for him to give her up. He reached out to touch her; she recoiled.

"You must not do this. Please. How many more must lose their lives?"

"Just one."

"No! I'll do anything! Just don't harm him!"

"Would that you could show such concern for me." He touched her hair, rubbing his thumb over the silken lock. "You really would do anything for him, wouldn't you?" The blank misery in his voice surprised her. "What woman would do the same for me?" He took the wedding veil, touched it to his face, briefly, and placed it on her head. "Not my mother, certainly. She pawned me off to a freak show ere I could walk. No kindness, no love. Ever." He breathed deeply, he had to be calm. "I loved you more than anything I'd ever known. I was so frightened. But you loved your Angel. And I... Well, well, well. It appears we have company, my dearest. Welcome, Monsieur, to the lair of the Opera Ghost. Or do you prefer the term Phantom? Either works, but Phantom is so much more... romantic, isn't it, Christine."

"Let her go. Do whatever you like to me, just let her go!"
"What a perfectly heroic sentiment! See, Christine, how passionately maudlin young lovers are?" There was some devil in him that found this darkly humorous; wickedly funny, really.

"I love her. Show some compassion!" The boy demanded. The Phantom looked at him, eyes burning. There was no sardonic gleam in those green eyes now.

"What compassion have I known? What compassion do you think the world shows to those it sees as monsters? Do not speak to me of compassion. It has scorned me. I scorn it. Come in, come in, Monsieur. Let it not be said that I lack hospitality. I daresay you would like to see her. Come Christine, show your young man your bridal finery." He grasped her, pulling her to stand beside him, like wax figurines on a wedding cake.

"Let go of me!" He let her push him away. An idea, a terrible idea occurred to him. He turned to pull the lever, letting the portcullis up. He took care to set the timer on it. He would get his happy ending, if it killed him. The young man, disarmed, was no match for him. He was soon tightly secured to the portcullis. The Phantom smiled. The Punjab Lasso would soon do it's work one last time. And Christine would be the one to decide it all.

"Christine. It's all in your hands, my dear. You can leave, walk away right now. And he dies. Or you can stay, with me, and I will spare him. But you must choose. His life... or mine."
"How could you?" She whispered, sinking to the floor.

"You try my patience, make your choice."

There, the words were spoken, the threat made. Now all he had to do was wait. She stood there before him, in the wedding gown he had chosen as perfect. She looked an angel in it. But she was weeping. Then she was walking towards him, her eyes shining with tears still, but her face resolved. He knew. She would save the boy and stay with him. And yet there was no comfort in it. She called him a creature of darkness, and she pitied him.

He wanted no pity. Not from her. He wanted the one thing he'd been denied, all his life, ever since his mother, his beautiful, cruel mother had tossed him to the freak show. He bowed his head against the memory. He did not realize that she was standing before him, her beautiful gown spreading out over the water like a mermaid's tail. She took his face in her hands. She was still crying, but there was steel in her sweet voice as she said.

"This is my choice." She kissed him, full on the lips. And he tasted tears. His or hers, he knew not, for they both were weeping. And so it was that all the hurt and anger dissolved, leaving only wonder. When it ended, he was gasping for breath. She had thrown her arms around him, and nestled her head upon his shoulder, as a lover might. A lover. His breathing hitched, he put his arms about her, holding her close. He put his good cheek to her hair, breathing in her scent.

She lifted her head from his shoulder. He was trembling. Her poor Angel. He had never been kissed before! That he should shake so, seem so pained that she had kissed him. Christine looked into those brimming eyes, and, her own overflowing, felt a surge of warmth in her heart for him. It was as if all of the fear, the uncertainty, had left her. She knew now that she loved him, and this time, when she kissed him, there was no thought of Raoul in her head. There was only this man, no longer Angel or Phantom, just a man, whom she had driven to madness. She kissed him, and there was no doubt in her mind, only the passion which she had been afraid of for so long.

He broke the kiss. He touched her face, hesitantly. He was weeping, uncontrollable sobs which wracked his body.

"Go. They're coming. They mustn't find you here. The boat. You'll need to take it, to get her to safety. GO! I'm a fool for trying to keep an angel in hell, with me. Please, just go, leave. Don't cry, Christine, you'll marry your Vicomte, and you'll be happy." He nearly choked at the end. He stumbled into the bedroom, fell to his knees before the music box. He sang that silly little song, "...hide your face so the world will never find you..." He smiled a little at the thought. He spent his whole life hiding. His whole life alone.

They were there. He knew it. He rose, ready to face the wrath of stagehands and the police. Hopefully, they would kill him quickly, with as little pain as possible. He turned to face them, and found Christine.

"You... you came back?"
"I had to. I..." She stood, tears swallowing her words. He put a finger to her mouth.

"Shh. Christine, I love you. I love you. And you can't love me. You want nothing to do with me. You don't even know my name."

"I want to. Tell me."

"My name is Erik. Now go, before I can't bear to let you leave again."

"I won't. Please. Do something, say something. Make me stay. I don't want to leave. Make me stay." She rushed to him, clasping her arms about his body, sobbing onto his shoulder.

"Christine," He leaned his head upon hers, memorizing her scent, her warmth, how right she felt in his arms. "If I loved you less, I'd let you. But you have to go with him. I love you too much to keep you. Now go. Go." He pushed her away, gently. She stood looking at him with tears in her eyes. He shook his head, sadly, but firmly. She nodded, and turned. This time, he watched her leave; watched her walk out of his life forever.

She paused, briefly, at the curtained entrance, "I love you."

And then she was gone.

I decided to title this part in reference to a poem by William Dunbar, a Scottish poet in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The Latin phrase, Timor mortis conturbat me, meaning "the fear of death disturbs me" was taken from his poem, "The Lament for the Makers". And no, I did not choose the piece because the Phantom of the movie is a Scot (or the fact that I count several ancestors of that nationality), but because that phrase seemed so fitting to Christine's dilemma.