A/N: Okay, so here's the deal. I am rather unhappy with this chapter, as it were, but my Muse remains stubbornly silent, so for the moment I'm afraid we'll just have to deal with it. However, as a trade-off of sorts, I'm posting a double-update... this chapter and the next. Hopefully (and I believe) the next is much better, so please don't be discouraged -offers plate of gooey chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven-
Disclaimer: Me... own Phantom... -cracks up-
From that point on, she did not refer to me as her Angel... that is, until the very end. Ever since her hand first came to rest in mine and I had moved from a concept to a tangible being, I had been dubbed "The Phantom of the Opera"- a name which I had considered to be childish and vexing until it came from Christine's mouth, at which point I accepted the name gratefully. Any way that she wished to acknowledge my presence was just fine with me, especially as she did now, her mouth hanging open in wonder.
Her eyes did not leave my face. I blushed ferociously, but retained a cool, confident expression in a vain attempt to hide it. Christine seemed particularly interested in my mask, to my never-ending frustration, and kept trying to look at me at an angle which would reveal the flesh underneath.
We traveled in silence for the first couple of moments before she broke into song unexpectedly. It was a melody which I had used in her lessons, and she seemed to be amusing herself as she pondered appropriate lyrics.
In sleep he sang to me,
In dreams he came...
That voice which calls to me,
And speaks my name
And do I dream again?
For now I find
The Phantom of the Opera is there
Inside my mind.
My spirit lifted with the sound of her voice, and I was compelled to continue the familiar exercise with a melody of my own. Two could play at this songwriting game.
Sing once again with me
Our strange duet
My power over you
Grows stronger yet
And though you turn from me
To glance behind
The Phantom of the Opera is there
Inside your mind
A catchy tune indeed... not one of my best, I admitted, but simple enough to use as a creative outlet. I had learned a long time ago that Christine and I communicated best through music- it was a language that we both spoke and understood fluently, so we didn't often bother with mundane speech when something needed to be asked or explained.
Those who have seen your face
Draw back in fear
I am the mask you wear...
I did not like the way this song was headed, nor her increasingly curious stare which was fixated on my mask. Using my influence over her (for indeed, when I sang, she entered a dreamlike trance, listening to and obeying everything I said), I quickly interrupted, changing the topic back to the one we shared most intimately,
It's me they hear...
We reached the end of one dimly lit hallway and entered a connecting corridor with a high ceiling, where my black stallion, Cesar, waited patiently. I lifted Christine onto his back and led him down the slippery stone slope to the point where the lake met the fifth cellar of the opera house. Christine slid gently from the horse's saddle, allowing me to catch her by the waist as her feet hit the ground. Both drawn to and intimidated by the closeness of our bodies (and realizing for the first time that she was scantily clad in white lingerie), I turned quickly away, gesturing with my free hand to the boat which bobbed gently in the murky water. I fastened Cesar's reins to his hitching post near the water and tossed him a flake of hay, then leapt gracefully into the boat in front of Christine, who grew more precarious by the moment.
I began to sing again as I rowed the boat toward my dwelling, this time met note by note by Christine in a spellbinding duet:
Your/my spirit and your/my voice
In one, combined,
The Phantom of the Opera is there
Inside your/my mind.
If the content hadn't been so serious, I would have laughed. My clever Christine knew me so very well... she never ceased to surprise me, and duets were always welcome ones. She fell silent once again, but continued to gape at me in wonder. I urged her to sing, calling her my Angel of Music, as she had obviously decided to drop that title for myself. She complied willingly, her mouth forming a perfect "o" as her voice rose and fell harmoniously, demonstrating the full capability of her range. I had her deep under my spell- the spell of music- and she, in return, had me mesmerized.
We finally reached the gate to my home, which raised in a timely fashion as I had programmed it to do earlier in the evening. The candles, too, raised from the watery horizon accordingly, and Christine's eyes grew even wider, if that was possible, at the sight of my rather remarkable underground lair. She hit one final, piercingly high note as the helm hit the stone shore, and I stepped lightly out of the boat.
I watched her intently as she absorbed her surroundings, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. My mouth curled in an amused smile at her surprise; it appeared to be a good type. Our eyes locked for a brief moment before I turned to my organ, collecting my wits and nerves for the performance of my lifetime. I was about to present her with an opportunity unlike any she'd received or ever would again; I had to make it convincing. I had only one chance at this.