Thanks for the positive feedback on Meg and the chapter, you guys are truly amazing, and keep me writing for more. And more! This chapter contains a slightly gentelmanly Erik, but I intend to keep the Erik gentleness/gallantry -not fluffyness- to a minimum and continue full on with the dark progress. Hope everyone's happy with that.


"Once one becomes interested in the game, there is no knowing where one will stop."

-Choderlos de Laclos, Les Liaisons Dangereuses


"I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion,

I have shudder'd at it.

I shudder no more.

I could be martyr'd for my religion

Love is my religion

And I could die for that.

I could die for you."

-John Keats


Erik leaned back in his throne-like chair, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, gloved fingers absently stroking his clean-shaven chin, eyes staring out across the shimmering lake, the grey irises fogged.

Vacant.

For one moment, he thought he had heard Christine calling to him…

Why did he give her that damnable red rose? The flower of love.

When did this elaborate masquerade begin? Plunging the unwilling characters into a false dream, strings pulled, chains secured…

At first it seemed harmless enough; Erik was convinced he was indeed fulfilling a dying man's last wish. However distasteful it might had sounded.

When the child came to the opera to live, tearful and broken, he had felt his heart stir in reluctant sympathy for her loss, taking on the role of a benevolent, fathering entity, honouring Gustav's memory.

He had little patience for her sobs, and it took great restraint on his part not to snarl the bitter revelation of him being only a man and not an angel whenever she addressed the dark emptiness with a smile, calling him her angel. This had irritated him immensely, but he continued to play along with the charade.

When he heard her gentle, sweet voice singing a Christmas carol by her father's memorial, he had been pleasantly astonished and decided to cultivate her obvious talent.

Lessons were conducted in utter secrecy, a white rose left afterward as a token of fatherly appreciation.

His pity for her conquered his impatience gradually.

Sometimes, he had sung to her when she couldn't sleep in stormy nights. She was always afraid of the dark and chaos and wintry weather she disliked, while he exulted in them.

She was only a child, and all he felt toward her was pity. Simple as that.

Even as he watched her cross the threshold of childhood into adulthood, the rather scrawny, shy and timid child maturing into a graceful young woman, her beauty flourished with dizzying speed.

Even then, she had held no appeal to Erik as a paramour. No, the very thought had chilled his blood, he had never been gallant or chivalrous by any means, and though perverted as he was, he could never bring himself to defile her innocent soul.

It was blasphemy, and even he would not descend so low and bring her down with him.

When, then, did he realize with bittersweet clarity that he was flawlessly manipulated by an unseen force delighting in tormenting him at every opportunity?

When did Cupid's venomous arrow pierce his heart to bleed and bleed…and bleed…

….In love with her?

She was only seventeen, for heaven's sake, still a child.

He was old enough to be her father, each passing moment pulling him closer to the oblivion's skeletal grasp.

His devious romantic designs and fiendish passions disgusted Erik beyond reason.

Grinding his teeth as anger bubbled forth like molten lava, scorching him in the process, the grey tempest of his eyes swept over the entire cavern, the miniature models of the opera he had made, the dark furnishings, the massive pipe-organ, the sombre accents that decorated his isolated kingdom of music, then strayed to the idol of his unclean shame…his inamorato…

The mannequin; Christine's lifeless twin garbed in that heavenly white bridal dress, the soft, chaste smile upon rose-bud lips demurely veiled by that ethereal waterfall of white gossamer, a simple, yet elegant bouquet of white lilies and roses in her pale hands.

Then his eyes drifted toward the uncovered mirror. The masked reflection snarled furiously…quietly.

"Damn you."

For thirty seven years he had lived with this obnoxious, abhorrent and loathsome face…This inhumane, gruesome face…

How could any body look upon that face without trembling with dread and disgust?

How could Christine?

How could she love…

Love was not delicate, poetic, understanding or gentle and tender.

Love was cruel, hungry, profound, wanton and demanding.

Love was a plague upon his reason.

Plagued he was, possessed, fallen at the expense of his sanity.

Past the point of no return.

And again, like a sweet dream, he heard her voice, this time clearer, sharper, resonant with a heaven like tenderness, calling to a false seraph.


"Angel?" The faint whisper echoed throughout the chapel.

The lamplight was dimming fast, until it died,the candle flame flickered once and it too died.

An unnatural blackness descended over the entire chamber, blotting out even the shaft of moonlight that drifted through the stained glass window.

Christine's eyes widened in panic, though it made no difference in the impenetrable, abnormal darkness. Fear crept in, crushing her heart.

She stumbled through blindly, completely lost her sense of direction, groping her way across the chapel toward the…

"I'm here, Christine."

Christine stopped, forgot how to breathe. What she heard was not the usual spectral echo, but rather a clear, deep and strong voice, pulsing with power and mystery.

Once again wrapped in the security of his vigilance, Christine felt relief flood over her in a sweet warmth.

"Angel! What's happening? I can't see a thing…Where are you?" A fearful sigh.

Erik stepped up soundlessly behind her, his presence enough of an announcement of his closeness.

"What are you doing down here this late, Christine?"

She quivered, at the rich, alluring black velvet voice, toneless, without a timbre of emotion.

Her delicate nostrils flared at the spiced, earthen scent of his murky dark musk, surrounding her in a fine mist.

Her palpitating heart was a symphony in itself, its rhythm gathering up speed.

She sensed him a mere few inches to the distance perhaps, his close proximity overbearing and slightly threatening, like unhurled lightning.

"I wanted to hear your voice again…" A hushed murmur.

Silence triumphed, stifling and maddening.

Broken by a feather soft touch of gloved fingertips brushing against her hand…

"Angel…Please don't leave me."

Erik lightly clasped her hand, with a wince hidden by the darkness of the chapel, bringing her palm up to his lips and brushing his lips over her life lines, with unexpected tenderness.

Christine sighed contentedly.

"Then you shall have your wish, Christine. Music it shall be."

Erik took her by the hand, guiding her steps, leading her toward the entrance of a secret route, descending downward into his lair.

Christine followed behind him, holding onto his hand tightly. He certainly had a fine sense of how to move in the dark.

"Wait…" she whispered. His steps came to an abrupt halt.

She was frightened.

And fascinated.

Where was he taking her? Who was this living angel, made of flesh and blood?

Was this one moment that… if she didn't take her chance, would be wasted, gone forever, because of her fear?

Questions could wait, her hesitation faded as his grasp tightened reassuringly.

She had decided.

"Take me with you." She breathed.


Next chapter's on its way. Reviews make my day. And night.