Author's note: Hello again my dears, here it comes, Don Juan, finally. (I just LOVE thatbit in the movie.) I was fantasizing about Gerry Butler the whole time as I wrote this chapter… –just melts- You will also notice some changes in Raoul's personality, but not drastically so. I'm sure you will quickly see the reason behind it anyways! I think this scene will also answer the earlier question a reviewer asked before.

Rooklyn: -le blush- Wow, many thanks for your compliments, I'm glad you're enjoying this dear. Rurik will definitely be in the next chapter, I've already written his part, he will neither be Nadir, nor a quickie update, but something inbetween. : )

Also, I'm not a R/C shipper, cute they may be together.

Kates: -dies as well- Grateful for your feedback mon cherie, I'm thrilled and delighted you're liking this, your support means a lot. –hugs-

Padme Nijiri: Gah, I didn't mean that last sentence to be a fragment but anyways, gotta triple-check next time. Thank you indeed!

And of course, a BIG thank you goes to all of my reviewers, and readers.


"Le Coeur a ses raisons

Que la raison ne connait point."

(Heart has its reasons,

Whereof reason knows nothing)

-Pascal


"The rose is fairest when 't is budding new,

And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears

The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew,

And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears"

-Sir Walter Scott, "Lady of the Lake"


"She loved him too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness"

-E.M. Forster


"To love someone means to see him as God intended him."

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky


The chapel of Opera Populaire was filled with the soft luminescent radiance of the dozen candles by Gustav Daae's plaque.

The fading amber light of the coral-sienna streaked afternoon filtered through the stained glass window, and danced a myriad of rainbow colours on the stone floor.

Christine stood before her father's memorial, much like the way she did some ten years ago, when she first came to live in the opera.

Now, in her eyes were not tears of mourning shimmering, but a cool, solemn thoughtfulness of someone making an important decision.

She reached out a hand, lovingly tracing a finger down the bronze edge of the plaque, her eyes softened with memories.

In her other hand was clutched a fragrant crimson rose, the velvet petals darkly and perfectly bloomed, its thorny stem tied with a black silk ribbon.

In her mind danced a picture of how Erik and her father might have sat together in those high-backed, saffron cushioned chairs back in her old house, maybe conversing about a violin composition, or mayhap about Romania, sipping amber brandy perhaps, or rose wine, like old friends…

A slight smile tugged at her lips as she imagined the way her father would listen with the patience of a Greek sage, never interrupting, maybe a nod of his head at a particular heated comment as Erik talked about music; so vehemently and zealously, and with passionate authority.

Her father had regarded Erik as a trusted friend, and so had Madame Giry; the two important people Christine always looked up to. To them, Erik was not the foul Opera Ghost, a freak of nature, but a human being with immense talent and potential.

A sudden flicker of sympathy flared in her heart, what a bitter, twisted fate it was, that such an intelligent, brilliant man should never see daylight, instead holed up in some cold, dank underground cavern in solitude, as a slave and master.

She should regard him as a father figure, a cherished mentor, Christine thought, but it was not to be so. Her traitorous body would never allow it.

Was it only lust…That rich, hot, darkest lust attracted her to him? Or something , a feeling more deep seated than base instinct, the low embers of a secret emotion she could not yet identify, where the sparks of passion had sprung and ignited, a slow burning fire that fed upon itself and grew stronger, only to flare into a full glorious blaze every time he was near…

Christine turned her distracted gaze to the stairs, where Raoul had been standing for the last good five minutes in shadow, silent in his brooding observation.

With sorrow, Christine noted he had been drifting into unnatural, melancholy silences as of late, merging after the masquerade ball, forced smiles masked his once jovial face.

He was upset, and she didn't blame him.

Most worryingly, he was jealous.

There was a shuttered, slightly agitated edge to his mannerisms now, although he kept his voice at its usual soft tenderness when he spoke to her.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, all day, where have you been, Christine?" He asked quietly, his eyes a stormy ocean, a dark, murky blue in turmoil.

Obviously you haven't been looking very hard, beloved…

"I was at the cemetery." Christine said slowly, cautiously.

He paced toward her, searching her face. The normally impeccably dressed, suave man looked rather haggard in his wrinkled white shirt and creased dark grey trousers. The flaxen hair was left untied to fall about his face, dull and lanky.

"With him?" Inquired Raoul, in a bland, toneless voice, his eyes drifting downward to the red rose in her hand. Christine followed the line of his gaze, and blanched, but made no attempt to hide the rose. She held it still, though her grasp had loosened a little.

"Yes, I was saying only goodbye."

"How can you be so naïve Christine! Do you really think he will let you go? Do you think that man has the honour to respect your decision? I hardly think so!" Said Raoul, instantly regretting the tone of irritation that crept so urgently into his voice like a foul serpent…

Christine paled. "You speak as though you know him, Raoul." Said she, sullenly.

"In a manner of speaking, yes, I do know him, Christine. In the end, we both fight for the same woman, we are both stubborn and we'd rather die than give up our love." Raoul said so firmly that a sudden fear seized her heart, crushing it, as though ominously spoken words had just sealed a dark premonition of things to come…

"You don't have to fight for me, Raoul. You know I care about you so. You know I belong to you."

Am I trying to convince him, or myself…?

"I don't want to lose you, Christine." He added in a quieter, subdued voice, thick with emotion. "No matter, after tonight, we will be free."

Of course, the night of the grand premiere of Don Juan Triumphant. On Raoul's orders, all the exits were to be sealed and guarded by armed gendarmes, ensuring the Phantom could not escape.

There was a sudden flash of pain as Christine squeezed the rose in her hand so hard, that the thorns pricked the soft flesh of her palm and fingers viciously, blood blossoming like tiny red stars and trailing down her hand.

"Don't put me through this, Raoul…"

"He must be tried and punished for his crimes, Christine. If you perform, and play your part, he's bound to show."

"I cannot be a part of this Raoul, I can't condemn the man who was my companion, my teacher, my Angel of Music."

"How can you say that, after all he's done to us? Your Angel is a murderer and a madman, Christine, don't you see? He will never let us be happy; he will haunt us till the end….Tell me, do you love me, Christine?" He asked on a tense breath.

Tentatively, she traced her fingertips over the ugly purple bruises where the Punjab lasso caught him by the neck. Erik's wrath was imprinted upon Raoul's skin, as was his passion imprinted on her lips.

I am to blame for all of this, no one, but me.

She faltered slightly. "You know I do."

Blood dripped onto the rose's scarlet petals, and petalsfell silentlyto the ground, as Raoul led Christine away from the chapel, squashing thecrimson flower beneath his heel as he did so.


Erik ascended from the lower recesses of his underground cavern, a part which had been lain forgotten and undisturbed by human hand for many, many years in fear of some silly superstition.

When Antoinette had first brought him down here years ago, Erik had stumbled upon a trapdoor by pure chance, the entrance had been half concealed under rock and debris, and once cleared, the cobwebbed gap had descended down into a another rocky chamber altogether, accessible by a spiral staircase.

The air down there was hot and stuffy, not cold and musty with age like his lair, and impenetrably dark. With the help of his keen eyesight, and a bright lantern, Erik had discovered an array of treasury; forbidden books, golden candlesticks, jewelled chalices, weaponry, gem studded bijou…stolen goods no doubt, stashed away, buried under layers and layers of cobweb shroud.

The baubles and trinkets he didn't care in the slightest, it was the books and the weaponry that caught his attention.

A witch's lair? Gate to Hell? What nonsense, Erik had snorted, a thieves' hideout more likely.

Besides the treasury, he had found barrels and barrels of gunpowder, vials of laudanum and sachets of arsenic. Erik had wondered as to their purpose, but now, it made sense.

Erik had arranged the barrels together with grim purpose, in the case he was found out, he would make sure no one would live to tell the tale.

Now, the fate of the opera lay on Christine's lips, lay in one word.

Tonight, it would end.

She had said goodbye, his credulous, beautiful songbird, but her eyes spoke a different story altogether.

She still loved that buffoon, for certain, but all the same, she was drawn to him as well, like a moth to searing flame, drawn to his music, responding to his touch with such fierce urge that it made him dizzy with pleasure.

She had touched his face, despite the obnoxious deformity, seeing past the horrid mask, whereas others would curse and turn away from him at best.

Tonight the game was going to be over, she had to choose.

This morning in the graveyard, Erik had felt something stir between them, something that had lain dormant had sprung to strange awakening.

She had felt it too.

That's why she had said goodbye.

Christine had more courage and backbone than he had credited her for in the beginning. That he immensely respected, but in the end, it was useless.

Going over to the mirror, Erik smoothed his hair back with faintly fragrant pomade and donned the black domino mask, hiding carefully the part where the mask failed to cover with elaborate stage make up.

He shot a longing glance to the lifeless mannequin wearing the exquisite wedding dress, the crystal flowered tiara and through the diaphanous ivory veil she smiled softly to him, upon her blood red lips were promises of joy.

Tonight.

First, he had to dispose of that corpulent, halfwit tenor Piangi.

Getting rid of him would be easy, one sharp blow to the head would keep him unconscious for hours.

He would not claim another life, even though worthless pieces of trash they were to him.

All for Christine.

He didn't want to upset her.

Besides, he was saving all his rage, all his hatred for that little worm; Vicomte de Chagny.

But, if she rejected him…

No, he didn't want to linger on his morbid thoughts any longer.

He had been tired of this game.

If he couldn't have her, then he would make sure no one else would.

With a pale smile, he stopped before the model of the Don Juan opera, snatching the little figure of Christine in his hand.

Time had come for Hades to claim his bride from the world of the living.


Everyone was ready for the gala of Don Juan Triumphant; the audience filled the auditorium and took their seats, the performers had a final session of warming up backstage, the musicians finished tuning their instruments, waiting for Monsieur Reyer, the stagehands watched upstage, the armed soldiers took their positions in the wings.

And, Aminta was ready to be seduced by Don Juan.

Everyone was prepared except Christine.

A violent shudder rippled through her.

Did she have the strength to go through with this bitter ordeal?

Did she have the courage to betray Erik, while she could still taste the delicious, wicked kiss on her lips…?

No more kisses, no more sweet music.

No more Phantom, no more Erik.

The red curtain lifted, the discordant overture began, a cacophonous symphony, its Spanish undertones barely discernible.

Christine sauntered over to the stage when it was her turn, toying with a red carnation as she did so, glancing in awe about the spectacular set décor that was a rich Spanish-Andalucian marvel; lush, dark and exotic with high Moorish pillars supporting a bridge, black and red scrims suspended from the flies, a pit of scarlet silk flames in the centre, silhouetted dancers pirouetted to a sensuous tango.

Christine heard Passarino call to his Master.

Don Juan, pretending to be Passarino, played by monsieur Ubaldo Piangi appeared from behind the curtains then.

Passarino, go away for the trap is set, and waits for its prey…

Christine stiffened, feeling her body grow stark rigid with shock, as she heard the voice…

A voice too velvety and sensually deep, too smooth and darkly dominant a baritone, irresistibly mesmeric, all to familiar…

Scarlet song ascendant, Don Juan Triumphant.

Erik.

Gone was the bloated, garishly dressed and made-up monsieur Piangi, instead stood a man splendid in his tight-fitting brown trousers that hug his sturdy legs and clung provocatively to defined, powerful thighs, a white frilly lawn shirt open at the front just enough for Christine to steal guilty, unabashed glances of the well-muscled contours of his broad chest sprinkled ever so lightly with fine black hair, a burgundy Spanish velvet jacket bordered with black embroidered vines, and a sweeping half-cape of the same warm, passionate shade thrown on casually so.

He wore a black domino mask through which grey-blue eyes glittered, penetratingly so.

Such eyes Christine had never seen, such a beautiful colour, a steel grey shade with soft amethyst blue specks that were now smouldering with a molten intensity.

Don Juan was magnificent, threateningly so.

He walked toward her languorously; with all the erotic grace he possessed so naturally, so casually…every step slow, deliberate.

There were sharp intakes of gasps from the female audience, first horrified and bemused; now coveting sighs, dazzled by the all masculine, enigmatic beauty of the new actor.

Christine wanted to scream! But all she could do was watch helplessly as he began to sing.

She could not take her eyes off him, nor silence the frenzied beating of her heart.

From box five, Raoul stared down at them with wide apprehensive eyes, horrified, powerless to stop the Phantom's dangerous game….

Erik knew Raoul was seething, terrified even.

It was Raoul who was cornered and ensnared.

And so, it had come to this, his grand finale, being performed for the first and last time in Opera Populaire.

Oh, I will give them a performance they would never forget…

Erik was aware of the peril he faced, but as he looked at Christine, he understood this was a risk that was worth taking.

Even at the cost of his life.

Her virtuous elegance undone, Christine was a breathtaking gypsy queen…her mortal beauty that would put a succubus to shame, so deceptively fragile and delicate, yet so powerful in a fiery splendour.

A low, ruby velvet corset accentuated her delicate waist and feminine curves, the dainty, lacy top of the white bodice covering her soft, round breasts, the ginger velvet skirt embroidered with yellow glass beads flowing gracefully to her ankles.

Her dark tresses were a waterfall of glossy auburn ringlets down her bare shoulders, a bright red rose tucked behind her ear. Her bright red full lips parted, her glistening brown Jezebel eyes drawing Erik sinfully closer.

And so began the cruelly romantic, intoxicatingly arousing ritual of Don Juan's seduction.

You have come here, in pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent…

Erik moved nearer, his steps harmonious with the music, his hand touching a creamy ivory skinned shoulder, trailing down her arm slowly, staring into her eyes.

No second thoughts, you've decided….

Erik suddenly came up behind Christine, molding her body to his instantly, his smooth left cheek pressed to her hair, then nuzzling her neck as he continued to sing.

Christine threw her head back, breathing heavily, shamelessly pressing herself to him, yielding to the voice that evoked a passion so strong she forgot they were on stage, performing in front of a crowd.

Instead the two of them were in a coastal Moorish tavern, in Seville mayhap, or Toledo, its lights low against a midsummer's balmy night, fragrant with bougainvillea, carnation and roses, the rich aroma of garnet Spanish wine lingered faintly in the air, gypsies dancing, one with the shadows…

No use resisting, abandon thought and let the dream descend…

He entwined his hand with hers, tracing it up the length of her quivering body, across her flat stomach, over her deliciously rounded, firm breasts and to his face, where his lips met for the briefest moment her fingertips before he released her hand, pressing himself harder into her back arduously, fighting the raging flames that had spread over his thighs.

The audience fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats, ladies fanning themselves, staring in open mouthed adoration of the magnetic Don Juan, men loosening their neckties and breathing harshly from the supreme erotically charged opera, the air thick with passion's raw display.

Darkly stimulating, awakening pure, unadulterated desire.

Only Raoul seemed unaffected, his hands balled to fists as he watched his fiancée being manipulated like a marionette…

The final threshold, what warm unspoken secrets will we learn, beyond the point of no return…

Erik removed his hand from around her neck, the contact of their tense, inflamed bodies broken unwillingly so.

Christine opened her eyes, somehow managing to sing her part.

Her voice flowed in a rushing stream of ecstatic passion, high, beautiful and vibrant, captivating all who listened.

In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenceless and silent…

Erik's chest heaved with each irregularly drawn breath; Christine radiated sheer fire, utterly capricious and demanding, exultant fire, kindling his own.

Her voice was a breathless temptress, enthralling and enticing Erik beyond the point of endurance.

Raoul dug his nails into his palms as he realized bitterly, Christine was not under the Phantom's control.

She was willing, completely so.

Past the point of no return, our passion play has now at last begun…

Don Juan and Aminta ascended their respective stairs up to the balcony, meeting at its centre. Then the pillars rotated, cutting off any access to the balcony.

When will the flames at last consume us…?

Christine's voice was an unsurpassed, tormentingly beautiful latria to Love's physical sculpture, burning higher.

Then, their blood racing, their voices joined together, pounding with a cadence so sharp and strong, melting together in an astounding sensation of two souls coalescing and soaring magnificently.

When the fiery aria was over, Erik dropped to one knee in front of Christine, in front of the open-mouthed audience and performers, and a devastated, shattered Raoul, disbelief and heartbreak in his teary eyes.

Erik started a gentler song, a downright tender in his divine voice dropping to an emotional serenade, holding out his hand, presenting her with a ring; an exquisitely crafted silver band mounted with a majestically carved beautiful onyx rose with ivory vines and leaves.

In that moment, time ceased to exist around Christine, isolating her and Erik from the rest of the theatre, for him she existed and breathed, only for him, and he for her.

In greyest eyes, Christine saw a man who had been lonely all his life, a man who had been denied the chance to live a normal life and rights to love and be loved…

A man who would defy God and His celestial host, the Devil and His infernal lot, a man who would challenge not only Raoul de Chagny and the whole world, but Death itself for his one true love.

Tears welled up in her eyes, how could she refuse a love so grand, perilous but infinite, and satisfying?

She, the selfish little orphan girl, who thrived on the music he wrote, whose soul clung to his very essence like ivies wed.

How could she deny her own yearning heart, bleeding, beating to his melody?

Christine could not believe this was happening, sweeping her reason on tempestuous winds.

The revelation was not easy to bear.

The revelation, her confession would be her salvation, and her damnation.

Every eye was upon them, fixed and breaths held, tensely awaiting the finale to Don Juan Triumphant.

So, gently and resolutely I took the ring, and not rashly, but tenderly pulled off his mask, to show the world, and most importantly Erik himself, that the man I truly loved was not a monster, not the half-man they thought him to be, that I loved him with all his flaws, all his ugliness and all his beauty.

Forgive me, Raoul. Please forgive me.

Christine was deaf to the sharp gasps and screams of their horrified and disgusted spectators as the Phantom was exposed, she was about to slip the rose engagement ring on her finger, throw her arms around him and kiss that hideous half of his face, tell him yes, like Juliet in love with her Romeo to death.

But she was completely unprepared for what was to follow.

Total disaster.

Erik gave Christine no chance to explain, and drawing his saber, cut swiftly one of the dangling red tasselled ropes, jerking her against him with an enraged strength, his face contorted and twisted in wrath, making his deformity a truly ghoulish sight.

He held her fast to him and leapt into the pit of fire below.

As Christine plunged down, and down into the hellish underground, she heard the distant echo of the great chandelier crashing to the stage, the theatre bursting into flames of Hades.

Gunshots, screams and shouts, people rushing to the barred doors.

Opera Populaire, a gruesome spectacle in flames.

Later, Epoque would give the incident a fitting title indeed; the "Devil's Night"