For one of my less complimentary reviewers, an explanation. How you inspire me.


So Distorted

Raoul

He stared blankly into the flames, lost in memories.

How did it come to this? He wondered. Christine and I, how did it come to this? The events after the disastrous Don Juan played before his eyes. The promises between Christine and himself as they took the Phantom's boat back up to the theatre. How true had they seemed, unbreakable, in the darkness of the Phantom's labyrinth! For a few days, at least, she had seemed content. Quiet, but content.

Then a shadow had begun to cloud her eyes, to mask her face. He knew that she was thinking about him- her eyes would look into nothingness as though she were gazing across a far ocean, her body would tense, she would toy with her hair or sit frighteningly still- cold and frozen as an ice-sculpture. It had hurt him, that she could not forget about the man who had almost destroyed them both, that he still haunted them through Christine's troubled mind. He had begged her, pleaded her, to forget him. She had responded with numbness, her eyes would waver with tears unspilled. He had asked her to tell him why he still troubled her so, what he had done to her that she could not forget. What had the Devil's Child done to her that grieved her so?

At first he had thought that he had misused her. When he broached the subject tentatively, fury had suffused her features, her voice became a thing of pure anger, raging at his concern.

"Christine, if he hurt you- it wasn't your fault, Lotte. You did nothing to deserve it, the blame rests solely with hi-"

She had raised her eyes to his, the fearful daydreams gone from them, fully aware and glittering.

And furious

. "How dare you." She whispered. Every syllable was sheathed in ice, cold enough to freeze him to the marrow. Her eyes were blazing in a glacial, statuesque face. "You think that he harmed me? You think that he would have abused me?" She laughed mirthlessly. "He who feared at times to even touch me?" A strange smile, bitter and cynical, twisted her lips. "Oh no, Raoul. Any hurt I carry now is of my own making."

"You shouldn't blame yourself, Christine. He was mad- a murderer. You are not answerable for whatever he did to you!"

"He did nothing!" She turned and strode toward the door. At the threshold she paused and seemed to sag for a moment. A whisper, so quiet that he thought that he had imagined it, came back to him.

"He did nothing but love me."

That incident had marked their decline. Strange questions had entered Raoul's head, notions that he would not have even entertained before. What was love, really? Was it this drive- this urge to protect that he had for his little Lotte? Was it the passion he heard behind the closed doors of the Opera House? The tenderness of the elderly couples walking down the streets together? Was it the obsessive infatuation of the Phantom of the Opera for Christine?

He had thrown himself into an affair with a chorus girl when the opportunity came, desperate to discover just what it was that bound Christine and him- and what did not bind them. His affairs had spiraled out of control as he searched frantically for the meaning of the tension between them, sought to find out just what it was that lay between them. And he had found that he could not stop. If he stopped, he would never know what separated him and Christine from other lovers. Why they did not feel the same rush when they touched each other, why she no longer sought his arms for comfort.

He convinced himself, at some point, that it was her fault. That, if she had only been willing to share the thoughts that shadowed her mind, than he would not have had to do this. He heard her crying at night, a whisper on her lips, a murmured prayer for an Angel of Music. She was searching for him again, she had to be. Her sudden disappearances, her absentmindedness, quick, defensive temper.

So he had immersed himself again with other women, trying to discover what separated them from Christine. One betrayal for another. He thought, with no little irony. I prayed, oh God, Lotte, I prayed that I would be able to make sense of it, to guide and guard you again. I prayed to be able to figure it all out, to find some way for us to be happy. To discover what really lay between us. Why we became so distant, so cruel to each other.

They had been cruel to one another, she seeking out her Angel of Music, he seeking out other women to try and puzzle out the questions that seared him. He had been cold to her when she had discovered him with another woman. He had been unforgivably insensitive.

He had seen the rose in her hand when she opened the door, tied with an all-too-familiar black ribbon. And felt like she had stabbed him.

It was the most foolish thing he could have done, to rage at her. But he had done it, and in doing so, had spurned and alienated her.

Then he had gone so far as to threaten her friends. With every intention of carrying out his threat if his demands were not reached.

My God, what have I become? Had he really sunk this low, become this selfish monster? Had he become this thoughtless, wretched predator?

I've become... like him. The thought sickened him. The Phantom had killed for Christine, Raoul had been perfectly willing to take the same steps. Worse, I doubted her. I betrayed her countless times over. Bile rose in his throat.

What have I become?

But His Voice Filled My Spirit With A Strange, Sweet Sound

Christine

Christine looked over at Erik where he sat composing. For once, he seemed utterly relaxed, humming along to the score he was writing. She herself sat reading, though at the moment the book did not interest her as much as the strange man who sat with eyes half-closed as song flowed from him.

How did we come to this? She wondered. What miracle is it that I am down here with him?

She mused over that fateful night where she had been forced to choose between two men she loved, one offering only his music and his love, another promising safety and content.

She had taken the Phantom's offer to save the one who had come to rescue her. How odd that he almost had saved her. With Erik in her arms, she had chosen to save Raoul and surrender herself to a world of music and fantasy.

It had felt like home, like walking in the door after a year away and finding everything as it had been when she left. .

Until he had released her. His eyes had been almost glowing with the wonder and the fear, the strange complex of emotions running through them both. Go now and leave me!

He had stumbled back from her, she had seen it in his face that he thought he did not deserve what she was offering. It was too powerful, too pure, for the Angel in Hell.

Oh, Erik, why did you do it? Think of those days we will never get back. Days when I understood the meaning of what it was to be a ghost. Days where I walked in shadow as you had, with no one to give me light.

Those days of darkness we shared, but refused to share with each other.

After Raoul had led her back up to the light, she had tried desperately to be happy for his sake. She almost thought that she was happy. Delusion had always been one of her stronger points as denial was Raoul's. But I could not forget him. In the night, there was music in my mind.

A requiem.

And she had begun to wander, in her mind, to search for the meaning, why she had chosen to leave him, why she had not stayed when he had let her go, taught him that she did not want to be released. That all she wanted, all she needed, was what he was offering.

But she could not do it in front of Raoul. Not then. She had still been a child then, frightened to upset her elders. Desperate for safety, a shield from the exhilarating emotions that had made her spirit soar.

She had betrayed them both a second time, with a false promise.

Swear never to tell- the secret you know, of the Angel in Hell!

He had been willing to let her go. It hurt, but with Raoul there, she had not had the courage to see another way.

Her cowardice had given her long nights of arguing with her childhood friend, who seemed convinced that the burning guilt she felt was of her Angel's doing.

Poor Raoul. He had never known the burning love that clenched around the soul, that warmed and seared it by turns. He had never known the passion that reduced the world to two single beings. The desire that caused the spirit to flee the body, the heart to flutter in ecstasy. That was a secret only she and her Angel shared.

Her cowardice had given them a false life- a false promise.

His betrayal had given it all back to her. She could not hate him for it, for it had driven her Angel back to her and given her the courage to do what she had long desired, but never dared, to do.

To go back to him.

Thank you, Raoul.

Here, Beside You

Erik

He knew that she was watching him, with that sweet smile on her face and eyes aglow. He had never been so content, yet so elated, in his life. It was pure bliss to sit here with his two loves, Christine and music. Why did we waste so much time in doubt?

He had felt the promise in her kiss the nigh of Don Juan. It was like notes from the organ, deep, thundering, with the power to force men to their knees. I was so sure that it was not meant for me.

Beauty was not meant to dwell in darkness like his, with shadows slowly bleaching the spirit.

But it is not darkness anymore. Not when she is here. He had done what she had so often wished for him that night. He had learned compassion. Mercy. The love so strong that it had demanded her release, anything to make her smile.

Anything.

Fate, it seemed, had not finished playing with them, as he had hoped it would. It wove darkness through them both after he had let her go. She had walked blind in the daylight, he had become, in truth, a ghost. Fate had led her fiancé to some madness. A madness that he was almost ashamedly grateful for. It had given him back the love of his life. The honly person that could chase the shadows from him.

It had placed them together again, side by side in the cavern that was no longer Hell.

It was home.

Abbreviated, but enlightening, I hope. Thanks again to all who left reviews for chapter 8. Now more than ever.