Masquerade, a phantom of the opera fanfic

Masquerade
by Orianna-2000

--ooOoo--

"Come away with me tonight, Little Lotte," he pleaded. "Come away and I shall take care of you, forever."

On the roof of the Opera House, bathed in moonlight, Christine shook her head. "I cannot. Raoul, do not ask it of me! How could I bear to break his heart by leaving now?"

In disbelief, he laughed. "That monster has deceived you, tormented you; and yet willingly you stay? Don't you understand that every hour you spend here, your danger grows? You mustn't wait, Christine. Don't put this off until later—for later may very well be too late!"

"Tonight, then," she whispered, her face pale and glowing. "After my performance. No! Do not begrudge me this. I will go with you. I will marry you, but only after I have sung . . . one last time . . . for him. For if I left now, and he never heard my voice again, I believe it truly would kill him."

Raoul consented, then kissed her on the forehead in a manner which reminded Christine very much of Erik, though she could not say why. Erik had never dared touch his lips to her skin, not even once.

And so she sang once again from Faust, her voice as pure and heavenly as any angel's. She wept and surrendered her soul to sing farewell to her Angel of Music.

But he would not accept such a beautiful gift of leave-taking from her.

Even as her voice rose to the final notes of longing, the stage lights extinguished themselves. When they lit again only moments later—Christine Daaé had vanished.

--ooOoo--

She roused slowly, with the soft strains of violin music coaxing her awake. At first she thought she must have fainted as she had during her first performance. The sickly sweet odor lingering beneath her nostrils told her otherwise. He had drugged her—which meant he knew.

With a cry, she sat upright and found herself in her bed, not at home with Mama Valerius, but in the Louis Phillipe room, in the little house beside the underground lake. Fighting nausea, Christine stood, but found herself hampered by heavy skirts and a long train that had wrapped itself around her ankles as she slept. Yet, her Margarita costume had no train, nor such layers of lace and satin. A gown such as this ought to be worn by a princess, a baroness at the least. She would not wear as fine as this even to her own wedding. With that thought, she understood, and the realization of what she wore nearly sent her into another swoon.

A wedding gown! But why? Why?

"Erik," she called in desperation. The violin music stopped; a moment later his shadow crossed the doorway.

"You are awake, my love! And just in time. Did you enjoy the music I played? It will be our wedding song." He gazed down at her with adoration, then crouched at her feet and began to straighten out the fabric of her skirts. As soon as the gown hung properly, he stood and extended his arm. "Come, it is time for us to say our vows."

She shook her head vigorously.

He retracted his arm and sighed. Disappointment glimmered in his golden eyes. "You need not touch Erik, if the thought frightens you still."

"It is not your touch," she said. "But your words! They frighten me, for have I not promised you I would never marry?"

His laugh sent a chill down her spine. "Ah, but my dear! You have already broken that promise, at least in spirit. I know about your engagement to de Chagny! Do not try to explain. I know that he is handsome and I am not, but you gave me your promise first. You shall marry no other! A trying vow, I realize, which is why I shall make it much easier for you to keep. You shall marry me, and then you shall not be tempted to run away again."

He frowned at her from beneath his mask. "You are looking quite pale, my dear. Have I frightened you, truly? Curse my thoughtlessness! Here, lie down." He helped her to the bed. "There. Rest a while longer; when the color has returned to your cheeks, we shall depart from these cellars forever. You shall be my bride, and think no longer of the viscount de Chagny."

"Raoul!" She moaned, and one hand jerked toward her mouth in despair. "What have you done with him?"

"Why, nothing! Nothing at all. Need I kill him, in order for you to give me your heart? If so, I shall not hesitate!" He looked at her in contemplation. "Perhaps it would be unwise to wait. Come! Let us marry now; you shall have all the time you need to rest, after you are my wife. You needn't shrink away from Erik so! Has he ever harmed you?"

As he drew closer, she moaned and closed her eyes. Then she felt his bare hands upon her. Those cold fingers wrapped around her forearm in a grisly caress. The smell of death wafted toward her like an omen. Angel or no, she could not let him take her away to be his bride! Not like this, without her consent. Before she could think the matter through, she reached beneath her skirts, fumbling for her garters. Surely he hadn't dared to change her underthings while she slept. . . .

No, he hadn't, for she felt the familiar ribbons holding her stockings up—ribbons that she had tied herself, and which held in place a gift from La Sorelli. Though it meant her stocking would fall, she pulled the tiny dagger from the knotted garter. Without pausing, she brandished it just as the older ballerina taught her. Three quick moves, and Erik drew away from her in shock.

He stood with wide eyes, blood dripping from his arm. Three distinct gashes marred the fine wool of his wedding suit. His pale skin peeked through the ripped sleeve, creating a sickening contrast of colors: ivory, red, and black. As she watched in horror, the droplets fell onto the pure white of her wedding gown, spreading in overlapping circles. What had she done?

"Oh, Christine. . . ." He made no move to stop the bleeding, merely looked down at her with a hurt expression. "I have overwhelmed your delicate senses. My poor Christine! You shall have one hour to compose yourself. Do try to be more in control of yourself when Erik returns!"

After a short, proper bow, Erik vanished. Christine rose and dropped the dagger to the Persian carpet, not caring if it stained the expensive rug. Her hands shook. Her legs barely held her as she ran to the washroom. Frantically, she splashed cold water from the basin onto her face and wrists. The faintness eased, though her heart still pounded without mercy. She then set to washing the blood from her gown. Such expensive lace! How could Erik not be furious?

How could she worry about stained lace, when he would return shortly with every intention of making her his bride?

Author's Note: The above is an excerpt from "Masquerade". The complete version of this story can be found in the published anthology: Phantom Variations: Tales From the World of the Opera Ghost (edited by H.D. Kingsbury) under the pen-name Orianna Duomille.