Disclaimer: I own zip, zilch, and nada. All characters are copyright their respective owners. I own only the words, in this particular order, in this particular story. So don't sue me. :-P

Story Note: I figure I should point out what version of the story this is based on, eh? It's mostly ALW with bits of Leroux thrown in. No Kay here… as I can't seem to get my hands on the book anywhere :-P

A/N: Chapter Four was revised slightly. Just a few revisions regarding Erik and the fact that it's kind of hard to see his features. Those finals must have stressed me out more than I thought…

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Faded Moonbeams

Chapter Five

"The distance of our bridal bed

Awaits for me to be dead"

"Caressed by the sharpest knife

I asked you to be my wife"

- Nightwish - Astral Romance

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She was alone in the great de Chagny manor. Well, not entirely alone, for every so often a servant would scurry past her on one of their great missions which kept the household running smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that Christine had little to do but lounge about or take idle walks through the gardens. The maids were no company to her for they had immediately judged her as quite cold upon her arrival. Of course, at the time, this was utterly untrue. She was only shy and hadn't quite yet adjusted to her new lifestyle among the nobility. One could also argue that she never had become accustomed and that over the years she had developed an air of detachment. Christine's lack of friends never truly bothered her, anyhow. For, while she wasn't very attached to any ladies of the aristocracy, it also just wouldn't do for her to delve deep, dark secrets to a maid either.

At least, her lack of confidantes had never troubled her until now. Left to her own devices, Christine begun to see bits of her mentor in anything and everything. A vase of innocent, pink roses appeared blood red as she passed by, only to show their true color when went back for a second glance. Browsing a section of well read titles in the Library brought back images of reading another's well-read tomes in a library which shouldn't even have existed where it did. Once, Christine even thought she heard ghostly melodies emanating from the piano in the parlor- the piano which no one knew how to play. She had run into the little room madly, only to find an empty space. Her imagination fancied she had seen the ghost of fingertips moving skillfully across the ivory keys. Her logic, however, told her something entirely different. It told her she must be going mad.

However, Christine was still skeptical about this new development her logic had created. If she truly were going mad, would she still have enough capacity to inform herself of her own madness? If her visions of Erik were simply imaginings of a deluded mind, would her vision actually tell her that he might possibly be her own fantasy? The implications only served to make her head ache, and then a bit of fresh air was the only remedy which could ease her wandering mind.

And so, when her mind began chattering in the dead of night, Christine decided she would "get out of the house" as her husband recommended so many nights ago. She would take another moonlit walk through the gardens of the de Chagny manor.

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Her troubled mind had decided that she would take a short stroll close to the house, her wayward feet, however, had other destinations in mind. Thus, this was how she found herself beneath the ivy adorned trellis, at the gate of a world where granite figures endlessly danced through the perfect roses. The starlight and moonlight glinted off the many colors manifested there. Purest white, virginal pink, sun kissed yellow. A strange anxiety gripped her heart, a restless sensation which made Christine want to run straight from that heavenly peace. But her feet once again disobeyed, bringing her to the ancient marble bench, it's legs carved lovingly with images of springtime and sunshine.

She could sense the shadows begin to close in around her, but she dared not turn around. She would not allow the last strands of sanity which she still possessed to be ripped from her fragile grasp. She kept her eyes firmly upon her clasped hands settled within her lap, even when she imagined she could feel a breath against the back of her neck. Her delusion certainly had no concept of proper personal space, but then again, did the original ever hold that concept in high regard? A soft breeze began to caress her loose curls as the voice once again teased her logic.

"I have been waiting for you."

"No, you have not, for you do not even exist. You only say that because it is what my own mind wills you to." she replied, although she immediately regretted it, for what use is it to argue with an illusion?

"Poor, impressionable Christine," the voice replied in imitation of sympathy, "after our last discussion, have you come to believe I am only an illusion?"

"What else could you be, other than an illusion? You should not be here." She noted that she continued to converse with her own delusions, but perhaps somewhere she hoped that her logic was incorrect. Somewhere she longed to believe that he truly stood behind her in all his dark glory.

"But I am here-"

"-you should not be here because you are dead."

"Ah, yes," the voice said with a hint of anger as Christine felt a light touch stroke a misplaced curl, "and you should have kept your promise."

"And you believe Raoul would have happily let me return to your personal dungeon?"

The voice was testing her, beckoning her to just turn around. But she would be damned if she lost the remains of her sanity just because she lacked the will. So instead she began examining her fingernails as if they were the most interesting objects in this world. That is, until another object blocked her vision.

"You continue to believe I do not exist. Tell me then, Christine, does this exist, or is it only your fantasy as well?"

A blood red rose now hovered before her gaze, begging for her to simply reach out and touch it. She allowed her fingertips to lightly caress the petals, and they were real- oh, so real. No flowers this dark grew in the beautiful garden of the de Chagny's. Only one person had ever given her such roses- dark as night, picked only just as they were beginning to bloom, and that person was now holding this gift in front of her, his gloved hands a stark contrast to the emerald stem, devoid of thorns. And this is how the Comtesse de Chagny's will crumbled as her gaze moved up that night clad arm and behind her until she was staring into a pair of amber eyes. Eyes which seemed to burn into her soul.

"My Angel," she whispered, "oh, my Angel, I have missed you so."

He said nothing, only began to slowly back away from her place upon the bench.

"Oh, no! Don't leave me again!" she cried as she stood up abruptly, "No! I have been so unhappy, I can not bear to live this life any longer- especially not when I know you are out there somewhere! Not when I will never be able to speak with you again! Please." A solitary tear trickled down her cheek as she slowly moved towards where he now stood.

He extended his hand to her once more, silently beckoning her to him. "Then come away with me Christine."

Her gaze flickered between his hand and his eyes, and what she saw in those glowing orbs was hope. Pure, undisguised hope.

"Come away with me, for I can not stay here…"

The perpetual haze that had clouded her eyes for the longest time seemed to fade. It was as if she could see clearly for the first time in her life. As she moved closer to him, the corners of her lips began to tilt up slowly, until a genuine smile crossed her features. A genuine smile which melted away the uncomprehendable sadness which had always lingered within her eyes.

And so, our Persephone gave her hand and allowed her lover to lead her through the velvet curtain of the Night, towards his moonlit Elysian fields beyond the garden of cultivated roses.

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The servants found her there early the next morning. Anyone would have agreed she looked like the sleeping princesses of ancient tales and legends. She lay in the middle of the roses, a bed of jade, crème, ruby, and gold, her chocolate tresses entwined with the crawling ivy. The simple ivory dressing gown she had been wearing shone opalescent in the fading dawn, drops of dew appearing like diamonds. Upon her face was an expression of utmost peace. No one could have disagreed that she had ever looked lovelier.

For in all the years they had served her, never once had her crimson lips been parted in such a smile, as if the object she clutched to her heart was the only thing that had ever truly brought her joy. For there, against her breast, was a rose so dark it could have been made of midnight. The entire ordeal served as an affair of utter confusion to all present, save for the sculpted beings in their eternal state of euphoria. If the mortals had only stopped to listen, they would have heard a haunting Requiem playing across the gardens and a clear ethereal soprano singing along.

Fin.

A/N: Thank you to all those who reviewed and left their thoughts during this story. They definitely kept my motivation up and helped to point out certain errors here and there. I will forever appreciate it. Forgive me if the ending is not to your liking- I do adore E/C fics where they find each other and "through a lot of trials end up happily ever after and yadda yadda yadda". However, I've always found Leroux's original ending- where Erik "dies of love" (how exactly he does that is up to you)- much more tragically beautiful. That's all for now, unless I go back and edit a few things. Until next time and with much love,

Titania of the Fae