Author's note: Hello my wonderful phantastic readers, I'm absolutely pleased you enjoyed the last chapter, this one's a bit long, but has E/C development, not to mention a gentlemanly Erik for the first time. (don't get used to it, though, he will be back with more conquering darkness, evilly so) Well, I'm delighted to hear your feedback, as always your support makes my day, so I would like to thank each and every one of you profoundly! –offers e-cookies and muffins of gratitude as well-
Anya: Thank you muchly for your review my dear. Christine will have to beware more than that. Is that gunpowder I smell? Barrels of it in fact?
Rooklyn: -bows- Kates is a champ herself. Merci indeed for the reviews cherie, I shall be sure to read your phanphic as well.
Broadwaygal: Indeed, dear, Christine has always been the true nemesis, but we shall see how things turn out for our fated trio.
"And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all…"
Edgar Allen Poe "Masque of the Red Death"
"There were times you really made me smile
And there were times you really made me cry,
And there were times I never really knew how to feel,
And the fear made you so unsure of me
What you needed was to be rid of me."
-Anathema "Electricity"
They do not love that do not show their love. The course of true love never did run smooth. Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.
-William Shakespeare
Let go of your worries
and be completely clear-hearted,
like the face of a mirror
that contains no images.
If you want a clear mirror,
behold yourself
and see the shameless truth,
which the mirror reflects.
If metal can be polished
to a mirror-like finish,
what polishing might the mirror
of the heart require?
Between the mirror and the heart
is this single difference:
the heart conceals secrets,
while the mirror does not.
-Rumi
Dropped down into the dark chamber Raoul did, chasing after the Phantom, rapier drawn. Momentarily disoriented he was, not from the fall but from the bizarre interior of the room he found himself in.
With no visible exit, surrounded on all sides by numerous full-size mirrors, reflecting his image all around him, grotesquely so.
Fear awaited crouched in the dark of his mind, ready to leap and devour his valour at the first sign of hesitation.
Sweat covered a pallid face expertly drawn by a Raphaelite brush, hand tightened on the hilt of the rapier until knuckles went white.
A flash of a red cloak among the twisted apparitions, then a fleeting glimpse of a white mask across the looking glass, slithering shadows mockingly rippling and pulsing unnaturally with unholy life of their own.
Sapphire blue eyes darted about in search of an adversary; the possessor of foulest magicks, the darkest phantasy personified.
"Show yourself! Face me goddamn you!" A frustrated snarl.
In delirious anger Raoul began to smash the mirrors, one by one the misshapen reflections destroyed, the sound of breaking glass echoing hollowly throughout.
With every mirror shattered, the lights dimmed lower, burying the room in a semi-darkness.
To the last mirror came he, glaring hard at the ghastly weaved illusion within the polished depths that was his image, a travesty strangely entrancing, an inanimate puppeteer advancing, sweat-drenched golden hair fell over a demonically deformed face, body hideously warped in reality defying dimensions.
Eyes drifted past the horrid reflection to the Punjab lasso hovering in the air directly behind his head.
Reflexively Raoul ducked out of its way, consequently turning his back to the unbroken mirror.
Emerged the Red Death like a crimson-winged nightmare with fiery aura, descending on chariots of black flames.
Raoul whirled around, instantly taking a defensive stance, his rapier raised to parry the deadly blow of the Phantom blade, launching a counter attack of his own, deftly so.
A mighty sweep of Raoul's rapier slashed across the side of the Phantom's neck, barely missing the masked face.
A slight twitch of lips, nothing more.
Blood flowed, seeped into the crimson collar.
Agile Raoul was, a skilled swordsman, but the Red Death was a fearsome foe, his tremendous strength and speed making up for whatever he lacked in technique, eventually forcing Raoul to a corner.
The violent, accurate thrusts of the Phantom's sword were met with timely swings of the rapier. Suddenly lunging forward, the Red Death slammed himself bodily into Raoul, pinning him against the wall with a bone-shattering intensity. The rapier flew from Raoul's hands, falling to the floor with a loud clatter.
Caught off-balance, he was forced to his knees with inhuman strength, hands were tied tightly behind his back swiftly with thick ropes, Punjab lasso catching him by the neck.
Ensnared Raoul was, Hyperion humbled and defeated.
A voice soul-chilling, bitterly venomous, tinged with a haunting melody of rattling black chains of fury lashing across Raoul's sanity, blotting out the deafening echo of his thundering heart, reverberated through the room.
"How would you like to die, Vicomte? Quickly or slowly? Choose!"
"My death won't make Christine love you!" With effort Raoul managed to spit the words.
He winced as steel met flesh, a searing pain eliciting a howl of agony from his lips; the Phantom's skull hilted blade was buried deep into his right shoulder, cleaving through muscle and sinew.
Then the sword was savagely pulled out of his flesh, dripping hot crimson ichor.
The cold tip of the steel was now against his right cheek, gliding down slowly, caressingly so.
Teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of the quietus strike.
It never came.
Instead there was an astonishingly tender touch of a hand around his arm, helping him up.
Eyes slid open a hint, then widened, the Phantom was nowhere to be seen, his timely benefactor was a tall, willowy woman still beautiful in her mid forties, formidable, quiet and disciplined, yet now afraid and elusive.
Madame Giry.
His hands freed, Raoul rubbed his bruised, aching wrists, wincing at the throbbing pain of his wound.
He staggered after the ballet instructor, through a narrow corridor.
"Madame Giry! How did you get here? Please Madame, you must tell me what in the name of God is going on here! For all our sakes!"
The woman paused, glancing over her shoulder, her pale green eyes shuttered and guarded.
"I know nothing, monsieur. But I will tell you this, keep your hand at the level of your eyes!"
Black December morn. Smoky clouds; masses of dusky mauve and dirty grey across a leaden sky above a slumberous Paris, first rays of a dawning wintry sun obliterated, promises of more rain and gloom for the coming day.
A lone figure she was, a young woman walking briskly through weather beaten, marble tombs, elaborate, decrepit monuments, and carved stone angels sombre in their vigil.
Silence surrounded Christine, like the cold morning mist that hung low over the grand cemetery like a benign shroud.
Somewhere in the distance the sound of church bells tolling. And silence imparted upon a dismal caw of a raven perched on the twisted branches of a winter-barren tree, a hushed rustle of the black velvet of a mourning dress and a long cape in the snow.
Beauteous face was a blank mask, carefully hiding a restless heart's tears, ashen cheeks tinted to a soft rose from early frost, wide eyes embrowned to a dolorous dark shade of sorrow.
Stopping before the snow covered wide stone steps of her father's mausoleum, Christine knelt down with a fluid balletic grace, laying the garland of cardinal red roses upon the snow.
The withered petals of the darkened and wilted ones among the bouquet fell silent, a dreary echo of her crushed dreams.
Lowered feathery dark lashes veiled unshed tears, though she was determined not to cry, carmine lips did not quiver, eyes of soft brown clear and bright through the haze of uncertainty and indecisiveness her true quietly dignified spirit surfacing.
Prayer-touched lips whispered in lament.
"No more memories, no more silent tears. Why can't the past just die…? Father, help me say goodbye."
Then a spectral voice was heard from the hallowed crypt, like sable velvet warm and alluring.
"Wandering child, so lost and helpless, yearning for my guidance."
His voice…that once chased away her nightmares with soothing lullabies sung from the shadows, now had become the crux of nightmares of most dreadful sort.
Christine looked up in bewilderment, regarding the slowly opening iron gates of the crypt with astonishment and trepidation.
Her face bathed in the soft orange-amber glow of a light spilling from the marble interior, warm and inviting.
Recoiled she, and drawn at the same time to the mysterious light that beckoned her in.
Christine ascended the steps toward the heavenly illumination, her reason screaming for her to stop, to resist the unholy enchantment, yet her soul ached to surrender.
Christine halted on the last step, reluctantly so, exerting her will over her longing heart.
"Angel or Father…Friend or Phantom? Who is it there staring?" An unsure cast to her clear, lyrical voice.
"Have you forgotten your Angel?" The phantasmal voice took the shape of Erik, once more to haunt Christine with its overpowering tenebrosity.
Christine's gaze fell on the black boots first, travelled slowly up the black satin clad muscular legs and steel defined powerful thighs, over the gold trimmed maroon waistcoat that fitted his tall frame elegantly, past the collar of the crisp white shirt and the ebon folds of the voluminous velvet cape about his broad shoulders, to the face carved and adonized to diabolical perfection with strong, proud lines, the right side masked to hide a gruesome half like a vicious curse.
She did not flinch under his arresting gaze, not this time.
"It's the devil I cannot forget, once my only companion, my Angel of Music."
"Amazing, is this really coming from a woman who literally begged for my touch only a night afore? Haven't you tired of this little game of pretence, my cherub?"
Erik drew near, his powerful presence commanding all her attention. A faint perfume of red musk and dead flowers emanated from him, a rich, heavy scent more potent than the fumes of any mortiferous poison. In a way, it added an odd spice to the cold charm he exuded.
Her resolve wavered slightly, eyes averted in a girlish gesture that never failed to rouse the tender, protective instinct within Erik.
A shaky sigh was drawn. "I know I'm not faultless, forgive me. But we must say goodbye now, Erik. I'm sorry."
Tensely awaited she, a white, delicate hand rested on her breast as if to ward off the anticipated harsh, sarcastic and disdainful response.
A humourless smile settled on his lips. "Come, walk with me a while." Said he, and offered his arm to her, in a purely gentlemanly fashion.
Hesitation was manifest in her radiant face. The cemetery was hardly the appropriate place to take a delightful little morning stroll.
"Indulge me, Christine." Whispered he, his arm extended still.
Slowly, she hooked her arm with his, wondering at her own foolishness as they began to walk together through the cemetery at a fairly slow pace, for a while listening to the sound of their own footfalls in the snow. A muffled, pleasant, tranquil sound that clashed with all that was Erik.
Finding a seat on a bench, he waited until she sat, then took his place next to her.
The view was magnificent to say the least, a rising sun painting the horizon with streaks of brightest ivory gold, the oppressive gloomy sky a gentle saffron shade. The high majestic steeple of Notre Dame de Paris ascending like a grand celestial monolith, the cerulean waters of the Seine shimmering, and the high song of the birds greeting morning tide.
Grey eyes beneath black lashes were strangely iridescent, almost a lapis lazuli cast with the play of auroral light Christine fancied.
"I remember, back in Romania, the sunrise was a delight to watch, you could not feel its warmth as much, yet you would take comfort in its radiance regardless."
"Romania?" Christine asked buoyantly, curiously.
"Yes, the place where I was born, and called home for eight years or so."
Christine arched an eyebrow in fresh inquisitiveness.
"I just realized, Erik, I don't know anything about you. I don't know you at all." She murmured.
"All you have to do is ask, Christine." Said he, a hint of a smile warming the stern, cold face.
Christine stared off toward the horizon, a thoughtful sadness creeping into her voice.
"I thought you weren't fond of daylight."
Erik offered a slight nod to her words. "I don't see the dawn often as you might have guessed, so I might as well enjoy it."
Christine was slightly puzzled, the man sitting next to her, talking to her in such a casual, friendly manner had nearly killed Raoul, her betrothed.
"What have you done to Raoul, Erik? He was badly wounded when he came out."
"Nothing he wouldn't do to me." He said simply.
Her doubts momentarily dissolved as he reached for her, barest of touches, really; fingers lightly tucking a wayward chestnut curl behind her ear in a rare display of affection.
True, he was a cold-blooded murderer, a pitiless villain, cruel, remorseless and vindictive.
Also true it was that he was tenacious and fearless, untouchably noble in his own way, a musical god, and was possessed of a single minded devotion to her, however twisted it may be.
"I miss your voice, your songs." Said she dreamily gazing out over the Parisian panorama of scented daybreak.
He turned to her, observing her face with silvery grey eyes for a lengthy moment, his voice a low, intense whisper.
"Come with me, Christine. We could leave now, this instant! Go away somewhere where no body knows us, where there can be no reminders of our past to haunt us. Just say the word, Christine, and I'll follow you, just say yes and I'll make it happen."
Her heart beat with a wild rhythm to his own, wondering if she just made it clear how astounding that offer was by only her startled and surprised expression, secretly excited.
"You're asking me the impossible, Erik…" Breathed Christine.
"Really? I remember Gustav once asked me the impossible as well."
Christine glanced up sharply. "You knew my father?"
"Oh yes, very much so. He trusted me enough to place his only precious child in my care. So why can't you trust me, Christine? Is it my face that repels you so?"
A wistful sigh at the peaceful moment interrupted, a rude awakening from a dream it seemed.
"No, it's not your face, Erik. You have no regard for human life, you live by your own rules, yours is a dark world of night, I'm not sure I can be a part of it." Softest voice carrying a straightforward honesty.
Sorcerous grey eyes set upon her without emotion.
You will learn to be a part of it.
"Is that your final word to me, Christine?"
She nodded quietly, holding back hot tears.
He leaned in closer, whispering in her ear, seductively so. "Then kiss me. Make the best of it, Christine, if it's our last kiss." Darkly erotic was his voice, a pulsing song of temptation ascending in vicious triumph.
A shudder went through her being, fidgeting under his touch, senses inflamed.
He covered her mouth with his own possessively, then, drinking deeply her honeyed desire, tongues writhed together and hands entwined, passions tangled in rich liquescent bloodlet cadence as her desire a black hex soared, a naked, stark need to feel him all around her, against her and inside her, deeply and ferociously so.
A black kiss in a cemetery witnessed by sculpted angels, two kindred souls found solace and refuge in its sacred privacy, blasphemously so.
All reason rotted and dead to her lust, yet Christine knew if she continued to yield to his will, succumb to his ardour, there would be no going back.
Erik let her feel the powerful flow of the font that was his heart, rushing in roaring intensity.
His love for her was an unstoppable tide of an ocean crashing against a rocky shore, everlasting raging fires of a volcano erupting, solid and unyielding as the pure black earth, an incessant hurricane destroying all that opposed to his heart's desire.
An amaranthine, fierce dedication that offered an uncertain future, full of endless possibilities and secrets to be unveiled, but also the complete and unshakable devotion, constant and unsurpassed midnight worship, a mighty nemesis to Raoul's ephemeral, flimsy and insubstantial attractions that could give nothing but a temporary anchor of false security and tenderness that would never be enough to sustain a siren that was Christine.
How naïve she was now, so young, delicate and sensitive, yet so strong, unaware of her own courageous spirit, her sincere inner beauty that was embodied in her physical perfection, the rarest rose of finest cerise in bloom to be watched and adored from a distance, and never to be touched or plucked by unworthy hands.
No, this was certainly not a goodbye.
The beginning of Don Juan ready to conquer.
