Author's note: I know some of you will not like this chapter as it contains Raoul/Christine and Erik/Meg interaction, but it's necessary for the character development, and I don't think will be repeated anyways. By the way we're getting close to the masquerade, which will feature in the next part of the story.

I need your feedback on this chapter please guys.

MorganLeFay99: The quotes are mostly taken from here and there, my books, internet's a good source too, Theatre of Tragedy is a fantastic band of Austrian Goth/doom metal music. The quotes I used are from the album; Velvet Darkness They Fear. Highly recommended if you're a fan of the genre.


"Immature love says: 'I love you because I need you.'
Mature love says: 'I need you because I love you'

-Erich Fromm

"My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirred;
And I myself see not the bottom of it."

-William Shakespeare


Beneath a pale brooding sky, the seagulls circled the air low over the water, waves thundering against the rocks and the sandy shore. The air was cold and heavy with coming storm.

"Have you ordered your dress for the masquerade, Christine? We have less than a week." Inquired Raoul with his usual cheerfulness, pushing his hair out of his eyes, as the wind played upon the loose flaxen tendrils.

Christine glanced up, her smile faint and distant as the clouded setting sun.

"I'm making my own dress, Raoul."

His soft grin was a beam of sunshine warming her heart with its benevolent light.

"Is that so? Let me guess, a gown of cornflower blue, or maybe pretty pink for Little Lotte? Well, it matters little, whatever you wear, your beauty is bound to turn heads, whether it be inbreeches or a dress."

Christine blushed, turning her gaze toward the sea, watching each wave roll inward and crash into the shoreline, a small smile playing over her lips as she remembered a young, valiant boy rescuing a rebellious red scarf from the merciless waves years ago.

Raoul softly gazed down at her every now and then, watching her dark hair whipping about her waistline, entwining their fingers together.

A small sigh went unnoticed as Christine pondered in silence. Everytime she closed her eyes, she found herself in a black wedding dress, crimson flowers in her hair, haunted by a dream that was not her own. She ached with a silent, unnamed longing.

"Red, Raoul." Said she, an enigmatic twinkle in her clear brown eyes.

He paused beside her. "Excuse me?" He asked, slightly confused.

"I'll be wearing red for the masquerade ball." Christine said, her face suddenly lighting up.

A white gloved hand rubbed her cheek affectionately. Christine placed a hand on the back of his neck in a bold move, tilting her face up to his, her lips parted slightly.

Raoul shuddered as she brushed her satiny soft lips against his lightly, savouring the exquisite sensation. Christine closed her eyes in eager anticipation, trembling with the memory of a first kiss heated with dark passions on the opera rooftop…

The kiss never came. Instead, he took her hand in his gently.

"Christine, I require your hand in marriage for that."

Her eyes flicked open, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and disappointment, trying to keep from looking like a complete fool at the same time. It was only a kiss for heaven's sake…

"Raoul, please don't jest." She laughed nervously.

"But I'm not, Christine." He said, an unusually serious expression crossing his handsome face.

She blinked up at him, suddenly afraid.

"What happened to us, Christine?" Raoul asked in a quiet voice, looking out over the turbulent sea with shadowed eyes, the teal blue irises darkening to an almost violet shade.

His question caught her completely unawares. "What do you mean, Raoul?"

He let her hand slip from his, leaning against the railing, his eyes averted sideways to the horizon in flames with the crimson of sunset.

"When we were young, we had no troubles, nothing between us but dreams of fairy castles and cotton candies."

"You're talking in riddles, Raoul."

The young man turned his gaze from the sunset streaked ocean to look at her beauteous face, his expression shuttered.

"What is love, Christine?" He continued, his voice gentler this time.

She pondered his question for long moments. "Love is what wefeel for each other, Raoul." She said finally.

"Whomever attempts to define love is the biggest fool on earth, but let me be a fool for you, Christine. Love is tolerance, understanding, mutual respect and ability to forgive and forget…Love is laughing in joy and crying in sorrow together. Are childhood dreams enough to sustain an everlasting love?"

"I… I guess we grew up, Raoul. But, we're together now, aren't we? So, I would say yes."

"You're right when you said we grew up. When fate finally decided to reunite us, we were practically strangers, Christine. But…since we parted, not a day passed I didn't think about you. Have you ever thought about me?"

Tears welled up in her eyes. " Why are you doing this to me?"

"Oh Christine…Please don't cry. I didn't mean to make you upset. All I want is to do the right thing by you, all that I have, all that I am, is yours. But is it enough to sustain you, Christine? Am I good enough for you?"

"Of course you are! If you weren't why would I choose you over …" She trailed off, horrified at what she had just said.

He gave a slight understanding nod. "Whatever you've done in the past, I promise not to hold against you, because I trust you, Christine."

"So… you know?" Her voice trembled.

He nodded again.

"He is…he was… my tutor, Raoul, my maestro. My angel of music."

"I don't know who this man is, this Phantom. All I know is that he's a murderer, Christine, manipulator of the highest order, a very dangerous man."

"You haven't seen what I have seen, Raoul." She said with a cryptic tone.

He reached into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, pulling out a small piece of jewellery.

Christine blinked, staring open-mouthed, then gasping in delight. In his hand sparkled a gold engagement ring, blue-white cut diamonds arranged beautifully within a lyre motif.

"Now see this, Christine. See me."

Her eyes misted, near tears. A new surge of conflicting emotions seized her heart, she found herself laughing as he cuddled her into his body…Daylight had disappeared, but Raoul's love for her was a shining beacon that would never fade.


Meg climbed down the stairs into the dank cellar, setting the food basket on a dusty wooden crate, chewing on a nail anxiously as she waited. Shortly after, there was a quiet noise coming from the wall, like that of a panel sliding on the other side. Meg pulled her green shawl tighter around her, shuddering at the sight of a man she adored and resented.

The Phantom was garbed in his immaculate black trousers and a fresh, snow white linen shirt open at the neck. How he appeared to be unaffected by the freezing cold weather daunted her.

As he stepped into the light of the lantern, she could see tiny spots of red staining his white shirt. Wine red. Blood Red.

Her insides twisted into a tight knot, her heart racing to a strange tune of dread thrill at being in such a close proximity to Death's chill presence.

Cold, hypnotic eyes acknowledged her through the mask, his head inclining briefly.

He strode across the room with a slow, predatory grace, a gloved hand reached for the basket.

Summoning all her courage, Meg stepped near, rouged lips whispering hurriedly, excitedly.

"Please take me down with you, tonight! Only for a little! Just for tonight, please, Erik?"

Narrowed ice-bound grey eyes riveted on her. "For the last time, Meg, my answer is no." He murmured darkly.

"But I have news for you…About Christine." She whispered in deliberate slowness, which soon turned into a sharp intake of a muffled gasp as his hand seized her wrist in an iron grip.

"Haven't you learned, already, not to play games with me, mademoiselle? If you have something to tell, then say it here and quickly before I lose my patience." His velvety voice dripped with honeyed venom.

The ballerina's angular, pixie face grimaced at the softly malevolent tone of his voice that stabbed at her heart with a hundred vicious daggers.

"And what if I don't? What will you do? Kill me like that scoundrel Buquet?" Meg cried.

"I'm tempted to do just that, mademoiselle, if you don't keep your words at a hush." He hissed, his grip tightening painfully around her wrist, his darken silk whisper sending tingles down her spine.

"I'm sorry, Erik." Her voice dropped to a low whisper, looking up to his face, surprised to finddark shadowsunder his bloodshot left eye.

"Very well, I will indulge you this once, but I warn you, once you step into my world, you're on your own." He slipped into the dark passage, pulling Meg after him.


Rain had stopped hours ago, beclouded sky softly lit with the first rays of dawn, rousing Rurik from sleep.

He glanced out of the window, running a hand through his tousled dark hair. The weather was clearing, a good sign for a long journey ahead.

He donned his trousers and white shirt, then the black robes over it, leaving it unbuttoned as he started packing his small suitcase. He took his Bible from the shelf and stroked the worn leather cover reverently, tucking his aunt's sealed envelope between its gilded pages, then placed the book on top of his neatly folded clothes.

His gaze went to the brown pouch.

What lay inside was not meant for his eyes, but his curiosity was becoming an unbearable burden. Especially after the odd conversation with Petru. Thankfully, the old Romany had been forthcoming with information, although reluctantly so.

Rurik muttered a prayer and emptied the pouch into his hand, unwrapping slowly the small square of saffron silk, revealing an antique signet ring. Rurik held it up to the light filtering through the window, examining the ring intently.

Made of gold, the ring was mounted with a large crest set on a polished black onyx centre stone; a coat of arms bearing s black cross, an intricately sculpted upside down winged red dragon hanging from it. Below the emblem was a small Latin inscription and a name:

Draconis concido, Morte ascendo: Radu Basarab.

Why was the name so familiar…so ill-boding?

Uneasiness crept into Rurik's heart as he read the latin words…

Dragon descends, Death ascends.

He couldn't shrug off the rather disturbing feeling he was being watched by a presence beyond human ken…subtly omnipresent at the edges of his awareness…

Something that was not all benevolent…

A thin, elderly woman appeared at the doorway, interrupting his morbid reverie. Slipping the ring hastily back into the pouch, Rurik greeted Anica with a smile.

"Breakfast is ready, father."

"Please, Anica, you must call me Rurik. We've known each other too long."

The woman nodded. "How long will you be gone, Rurik…that is, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I do not know, hopefully not for long." Seeing the old woman's worried face he added as an afterthought.

"Do not fret, Stefan will run the estate while I'm gone. It's going to be all right."

"Is it, really?" She muttered, more to herself than him, her gaze vacant. "Do you think you will find him?"

Rurik's sage green eyes stared off contemplatively. "If God wills it."

Anica twisted her apron nervously, her eyes downcast. "It should be a strange reunion indeed. Oh sweet Lord…He would resent me! But I'm not worried about that…no."

"What are you worried about then?" He closed his suitcase.

The old maid sighed. "I don't know…His face…that face…He's not like you and me."

"He couldn't help his face, Anica. He's a child of God, like you and me." He said firmly.

"It's not his face that troubles me so much as his…" She crossed herself quickly. "Never mind."

Rurik sighed in exasperation, wondering why she and that senile old gypsy feared Alexej so much.

"I remember…He would look at you and you'd think you were staring into the abyss, he could be so gentle but so unfeeling too…And the way he would play that violin like he was possessed." Anica mused absently, lost in memories.

"So, he was fond of music?" Asked Rurik casually.

"Very much so. It was his life, his sole enjoyment. He was truly happy only when he played his music. Even the countess would be moved to tears upon hearing it. Everyone, except his father. He hated it."

"Why did he hate it?"

Anica gave a slight shrug. "Who knows? Even the smallest things angered the Count. He was very short of temper, God bless his soul."

"Yes, I heard as much." Rurik reflected. "What happened to him?"

"He died of syphilis as far as I know. Even on his death bed he rejected the Christ's outstretched hand." Anica sighed. "It was awful, he was delirious, babbling about dragons and such."

Rurik's cut his gaze to Anica sharply.

"Dragons? Why would he be talking about dragons?"

"As his illness turned worse, the poor man became more senile." She shrugged her thin, drooped shoulders.

"I see." Said Rurik. "Tell me more."


The Phantom's lair was every bit as darkly eccentric as Meg had imagined. In the dimness of the candlelight, a legion of shadows fell across the walls and the stone floor of the cavern.

Erik gestured to a chair for her to sit. Enchanted and unnerved, she obeyed, casting her eyes around irregularly, trying to take it all in.

"Who would have thought such a place could exist beneath the opera?" It's fantastic!"

"What's beneath this cavern is not very fantastic." Erik said dryly.

"You mean to say there are lower levels down below!" Meg asked, dumbfounded.

"Absolutely."

She kept her heightening fear in check.

"Now, what do you have to tell me about the wayward pupil of mine?" He couldn't bring himself to utter her name…

"The Vicomte proposed to her, Erik. She seemed so happy." Meg responded in a low voice.

The stern lines of his masked face grew darker, if such a thing were possible, for only a split second eyes blazed with the fire of his anguish. Then it was gone just as quickly, like a ripple disappearing on the surface of a clear, depthless lake. No emotion lingered, not even a twitch of a sensual lip. Nothing.

Only, the innate aura of imminent danger surrounding him intensified to a suffocating darkness.

The grim reality of what she'd just done, and what he was capable of doing, left Meg with a horrid sensation of guilt and self-disgust.

"Please don't hurt Christine!" Fear now evident in her voice.

"Don't be absurd." He grumbled darkly. His sharp grey gaze riveted on her. "It's not her fault that idiot's in love with her."

Meg's eyes went wide, was this the volatile, vindictive, dangerous man speaking in such icy controlled calm in such a civilized demeanour? In a way, this unnerved Meg even more so.

"What are you going to do?" She asked anxiously.

Erik stared over the lake in silence. Like the quiet before a storm…He then returned his attention on her, his eyes penetrating her very soul with a grey sliver of ice.

"Why the sudden interest, mademoiselle?"

Meg flushed uncomfortably. "She's my friend. I care about her very much."

"I never noticed." He said in a deep, brusque tone.

"Regardless, I have just the perfect wedding gift. Christine deserves no less." He said ominously, glancing over to the red-leather bound folder.

"You're in love with her aren't you?"

"Yes." Much to her surprise, his words were not uttered in bitter sarcasm, rather, they came out in a soft whisper, touched by the indescribable pain of his burden, of years of rejection and longing.

Then his expression was once more guarded, aloof, distant.

What she heard next sent chill shivers down her spine, Meg regarded him in terrified silence, letting the sound of his ascending voice fill the cavern, fill her mind with its dreadful darkness.

He was laughing.