Author's note: My dearest readers, I'd like to express my sincerest apology for delaying so long. Writer's block is a cruel, nasty little demon! My gratitude is boundless to those who took the time and supported my work with their beautiful and constructive reviews, you are the best.
I hope you will ignore any historical glitches and forgive my alterations in this chapter, and enjoy the story.
Dearest Kates: First off, sorry for keeping u waiting so long! –ducks- I'm delighted at your kind offer, tenebrion based artwork, wow, I'm honoured. By all means, go nuts!
Rooklyn: You know you're a champ! –hugs-
Witchy-grrl & MorganLeFay99 &Malthen Tinu:Your wonderful support from the beginning of this story truly inspired me, thank you so much my dears.
monroe-mary: A big thank you goes to you as well, and we shall see if Erik will be able to keep his Christine, or is it the other way round?
Anya: Thank you muchly! –hugs-
Padme Nijiri: You've been a blessing with your grammatical help, thanks dear!
Morleigh: Thank you very much for your review, dear. Yes, I'm a big sucker for romances, darkly written ones especially, and I'm very interested in mythology as well. It's a bit of both, that influences my writing, actually, though I mostly favour gothic, historical fiction with dark and morbid themes.
Kaity H. : Awww, thank you for your concern! That's very sweet of you! I promise, I won't leave this story unfinished!
And now, without further ado, I present to you, the next but not last chapter 20.
"He that has light within his own clear breast may sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day; But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; himself his own dungeon."
-John Milton, Paradise Lost.
A dark journey into the darkest heart of Opera Populaire; passed Christine through the ancient, cobweb laced stone passageways, beneath the accusing, scowling stares of gargoyles in grim echo of a fierce, unmasked visage at her side…
Dragged she had been, by a Phantom fearsome and demonized in rage too long suppressed, snatched too suddenly from Eden.
Erik was unstoppable in his darkness, unbendable in his wrath, unforgiving eyes afire in grey-blue.
Charon's blackened boat hit the shore, the splash of water a silvery melody blending eerily with Christine's choked sobs…And the ferryman and Hades, Gargoyle and Don Juan, this Phantom that was Erik, carried her to the shore, roughly so.
Candles were lit, but their illumination was weak and ghostly whispers against dominant shadows reigning in corners, seemingly sucking the light into their abyssal bosom.
Cold seeped into her bones, her heart frozen in despair's icy grip.
Once a haven mysterious, a glorious sanctuary enchanting in its haunting sombre beauty was now nothing more than a gloomy, dismal dungeon where music itself was menacing and dusky.
Great mirrors were covered with velvet drapes, music sheets and drawings scattered haphazardly about the pipe organ.
Christine's gaze sought those of frosty grey-blue, ablaze still with a cold fire of the malefic rage held tightly in check, but ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.
Christine wanted to shut her eyes against the twisted face further distorted by bitterness and unspeakable pain.
What have I done…
Suddenly, his hands grabbed the delicate shoulders, shaking Christine, violently so.
"Why! Why did you expose me like that!" Growled he, his words nearly incoherent through the hazy fog of his anger.
He then let go of her, pushing her away from him, and walking over to the pipe organ in deep frustration, smashing his fists into the ivory keys. A discordant nharmony of weeping notes shrieked, pierced the incense fragranced air eerily so.
He spoke again, this time more calmly, regaining his composure and his voice its darkly lyrical beauty.
"You made a perfect spectacle of the Opera Ghost, brava, my deceiving cherub! I couldn't havethought of itbetter!"
Christine, silent till then, found her own voice, somewhat shakily at first declared boldly.
"Maybe it was my heart acting, and not my reason!" Said she, and shook her curly head, delicate brows furrowed as she paced over, her voice growing stronger.
"Why did you condemn innocent people to such a gruesome death, whilst it is I who deserve your punishment! For both our sakes, end this torture!"
Erik half turned, the disfigured right side of his face caught the candlelight in monstrous brightness, dazzling her mind, the dark intent behind his eyes sending jolts of fear through her body.
How could I to believe that the reason she exposed me to the very world I so despised and loathed , was that her heart beat against mine?
"Oh, you shall suffer too, Christine, I assure you."
He whirled around, glaring down at her, his voice soft and absinthian, laced with ice.
"An eternity of this, before your eyes!" Snarled Erik through gritted teeth, grabbing her slender wrist and forcing her hand across his twisted flesh.
Christine did not flinch, she kept her gaze level with his, emotions swirling through her like tempest wind, threatening to break all shackles of reason.
How shall I reward your treachery, my siren? Your honey sweet voice is poison seeping into my heart, your soft eyes glass-like and deceitful, mirroring a soul not unlike my own. In your desire you are mine, it's my breathless song your heart sings, and you still betrayed me.
For long moments, he simply stared at her, mutely so, drinking in the beauty that was Christine, her unbound curly hair, spilling past her exposed, pale shoulders, her wide-set brown eyes bright and clear, the exquisitely cut features of her small face, her shapely limbs as they moved in liquid grace, her undefiled body lithe and seductive in the Aminta dress…
If there ever was an ultimate personification of female beauty, it did not lay at the tip of Boticelli's masterful brush…Venus did not do her justice…
"You planned it all along, didn't you? You and that bloody vicomte!" Spat Erik, seized by a madness creeping into his heart to destroy every good intent.
Christine's eyes flashed as she suppressed a sigh. "Erik, listen to yourself! How could I have planned such a terrible deception? Nobody knew you were to play Don Juan! It was Raoul's idea to bar the doors, I did not want any part of it!"
Erik's unmasked face was a deep-set scowl, smouldering hatred at the mention of his adversary's name, embers of his passion burning brighter still from the sensual opera, at the face of Christine's defiance leaping higher.
And the face she beheld was not a cursed mass of twisted flesh, not a hideous monster but a fallen, broken angel shunned and denied the light of heaven.
"And yet you played along all the same! Brilliant, as usual, my dear!" He half said, half whispered sensuously into her ear, his lips leaving a searing trace over her neck, satisfied at her hearing her sigh despite her initial horror and disappointment, leaning instinctively closer.
"And you were ready to go with that bloody idiot who didn't hesitate to gamble your life away like that!" Hissed Erik, breaking the contact of their bodies, reluctantly.
Christine mumbled quietly, her voice hollow. "Apparently I was…"
Erik did not miss the stark tone of sarcasm shading her musical voice. Wrapping his arm around her delicate waist, crushing her to him with an iron might, he half-carried, half-dragged her up the carved stone steps to the alcove where the bridal mannequin smiled lifelessly.
Christine found herself staring at the doll with a mix of grief and strange anticipation. Behind her, Erik stood silent, his hand coming up to brush her thick curls aside to bury his face in the curve of her neck, his lips grazing over her porcelain skin with an ancient instinct.
Dread and exhilaration set loose, a deadly aphrodisia, she longed to reach out and touch the smooth, flowing snow white silk, the shimmering diaphanous veil, the glittering pearl beaded tiara…
The ungloved hand smoothed over her flat midriff through the velvet of her dress, his thumb grazing against the underside of her lace covered breasts. Erik heard her sharp intake of breath, the tiny quiver against his body that had been punished and starved of a more intimate touch too long.
His lips were next to her ear again, commanded he, his voice a velvet dream. "Put it on."
Sweet temptress…I hated her with such black wrath it had settled into a cold, bitter fire that finally engulfed my reason. I loved her with such profound intensity that my love for her transcended all reason, destroyed all virtue, crushed all need, consumed me whole and undid my soul…
Christine gave a quiet sigh…Upstairs, in the theatre, people were fleeing for their lives, dying even…And here she was, the shameless catalyst of all this disaster, allowing herself the luxury of happiness…
Erik began to undo the straps of her crimson corset, not waiting for her permission, his fingers moving with deft precision, when the last strap came undone, he released her then.
Christine obediently slid out of her dress, stepping out of the puddle of silk and velvet beneath her feet. Without any display of feminine modesty, she stood before him in her white lacy petticoats, half-naked, gracefully so, the long tresses of her curling hair falling over her breasts like the sensual veil of an odalisque.
Erik had not expected her to tease in such a way, after all that had transpired that night…A man blinded by desire, he was, his whole body growing steel hard and rigid as she mercilessly taunted him thus…
Turning, swallowing thickly, he prepared to leave to give her some privacy.
Angel-soft touch of her hand on his arm stopped Erik. He fingered a curling strand of perfumed auburn hair, inhaling its rose scent deeply. Her siren eyes froze him into place.
Christine was caught in the web of her own desire, at last, somewhat surprised at her change of heart, strangely numbed by a pain too sharp for words, but pain was the price of love.
She was already putting on the exquisite bridal gown, in pearly silk and pristine gossamer that fitted her delicate frame perfectly, Christine appeared like an otherworldly, magical creature.
A succubus…garbed in heavenly light.
Erik leaned over, his face an inch apart from hers.
"Do you not fear me, cherub? Do I not disgust you?" Asked Erik in a venomously soft, careful voice.
Before she could reply, however, somewhere nearby echoed the crimson sounds of flames rising high, engulfing Opera Populaire, triumphant in their path of destruction.
Erik snapped his head toward the direction of the lower vaults that housed the barrels of gunpowder. If the fire reached his lair…the disaster would soon turn into a fiery death in the explosion.
Like a phoenix rising from his ashes, from the shimmering waters of the subterranean lake rose Raoul, just behind the portcullis.
The disaster was only beginning.
The last person to evacuate the building, Antoinette Giry stared, muted by grief at the blazing inferno that was once France's most popular Opera House. She was faintly aware of Meg tugging on her arm, tears streaking her doll-like face, Monsieur Firmin and Andre a few paces behind, watching their business turn to ash in horror and shock.
Erik and Christine were trapped inside, and the Vicomte was nowhere to be found.
Antoinette did something she had forgotten then, a long time ago, when Meg's father died.
She began to pray.
Rurik paced the cobbled streets of Paris, wearily so. His thoughts were troubled, his mind leaping to conclusions, his imagination formulating fantastic nonsense.
It was useless…Paris was a big city, where was he to start looking for a cousin he'd never known?
Most worryingly, he had found his uncle's secret letters and personal documents.
Radu Basarab. Also known as Radu the Handsome.
Brother to Vlad Dracul, known as Voivode Impaler.
Direct ancestor of Dragutonovich line.
Digging deeper into his uncle's hidden archives, Rurik had been appalled and shocked to discover written records of a secret cult idolizing an unorthodox diety.
Radu and Vlad Dracul. The deadly animosity between the two powerful brothers that drove the former to found a new order of knighthood, opposing that of the Order of Dragon. Victorious after Dracul's death, their banner had been a black cross with an upside down winged red dragon, symbolising the fall of Dracul. Eventually, soon after Radu's demise, the order had steered from its original just cause to fight the invading forces, and had become corrupted, descending further into the depths of depravity and cruelties of most blasphemous design, amid rumours of heresy and devil worship.
A son promised…Destined to rule Wallachia with iron might and tyranny…
Rurik was jolted out of his morbid reverie by screams and commotion nearby, and at the sight of smoke curling into the night sky from the blazing building, Rurik quickened his pace toward Opera Populaire.
"She'd sworn me wows in fragrant blood
"Never to part
Lest jealous heaven stole our hearts"
Then this I screamed:
"Come back to me!
I was born in love with thee
So why should fate stand in between?"
-Cradle of Filth, Her Ghost In The Fog
