I remember this one being a total angst-fest to write; thanks, school? Anyhow, here's Polo!Christine waking up in the enchanted forest and contemplating just how wrong it could have completely gone, before it all does go completely wrong. Heavy angst warning! Also, Cherik is a little crazy, but hello? Christine? Safety-blanket?

The Magic Forest

It was, perhaps, only the cracking of twigs that shook her from her cloudy dreams, from vague haunting images of folded, yellow skin and dark holes that were supposed to hold a nose and cheeks. Through the haze, her eyes managed to wedge themselves open.

A bird stared down at her from a high branch, unmoving, unseeing. Her breath hitched. She sat bolt upright, her heart pounding against her ribs.

How had she landed herself here? Her memory had clouded the last few moments before she passed out, and now all that remained through the fog were...

Those eyes...

Eyes so blue and sharp, they could very well cut a piece of her soul out and present it to her on a platter, so intelligent she found herself childishly stupid, but so generously and soothingly polite that such a feeling never lasted very long.

She raked a hand through her hair, pulling an array of grasses and twigs from her curls. The forest was exactly as it had been before — the open picnic basket, its contents only half packed away, the blanket ruffled from their seated positions, the same towering trees and unblinking eyes staring at their master's guest.

And there! She had to stare for a long moment before she realised what it was: his mask. The mask which hid the face of her honest Maestro, now abandoned to the mercy of her consciousness. She reached out a quaking hand.

The material was cold and heavy in her fingers, and a small but surprisingly painful part of her sank at the thought of having to wear it near constantly. The ties fluttered against her bare arm with wispy breaths and only made her heart strain further against its tether. The forest was exactly the same, she thought, but for the disappearance of her shy Maestro.

Maestro... Ah! Yes, she remembered it all now! A smile graced her lips at the thought of her arm threaded through his. How strange it had been, to see her exquisitely distinguished, elegant Maestro so far below ground, surrounded by old sets, props, trinkets, and now a forest of dreams. And how happy he'd seemed to live such a fairytale, as opposed to his stiff, business-like demeanour he'd presented this past month. It was so... unlike him.

Or perhaps it isn't...

He had been speaking of dreams coming true, after all. Perhaps this was his dream, and he was one of the few fortunate ones to see it come to life.

And she had been the one to shatter it.

A glum guilt settled in her chest, and she cast sorrow-lidded eyes to the mask in her hand. She hadn't seen his reaction to her fainting, but it couldn't have been good; as calm and genteel as her Maestro was with their music lessons, as lovingly as he played the piano in the music hall and, sometimes, his own flute, he was just as easily distressed over matters of the heart.

And so, she decided against the anxiety that had been blooming within her chest for a while now, he must be found and apologised to. She pushed herself from the blanket to quivering legs and took a ginger step, hardly daring to trust her balance. A dark cloud tunnelled her vision, but she pressed on, rather aimlessly, into the forest, ignoring the glassy eyes that followed her.

Somehow, she found her way back to the underground music room and pushed the doors open, biting her lip until she felt sure it would bleed.

Somewhere up ahead, a smash echoed through the house, followed by the violent crashings and bangings of wood on stone. She froze on the threshold.

Her eyes wandered once more to the mask in her hand. Was it worth approaching him right now? Wise, even? Another smash of china, or perhaps mediocre porcelain, made her jump. Her feet rooted to the floor.

But try as she might to imagine it, she simply couldn't picture her kind Maestro causing such a ruckus. Perhaps he had a pet, a dog maybe, that he hadn't mentioned before? One with wild, untrained tendencies to chase its own hysterical tail around his home.

She didn't let herself pause long enough to think through the various reasons why that would certainly not be so, but nodded firmly and crossed the floor to the next door.

She drew it open with a soft creak and peered outside, into what she'd assumed upon arrival was a little porch of some description.

She wished afterwards she hadn't.

He tore around his magical home in a rage, tearing and annihilating the furnishings that once gave it such a wonderful feeling of living a real-life fairy tale, like the ones her Papa had told her as a child. Everything came down: shredded, smashed or knocked over, it seemed nothing could stand in his fiery path.

She retreated from the door, shutting it as softly as she could and gnawing at her lip with newly affrighted vigour. How could she ever look at him again, knowing she had the power to send him into such a fit of rage? She had turned her chivalrous, altruistic teacher into the abhorrent ghoul he believed himself to be; for he was, she forced herself to admit to Gerard's warnings, the Phantom of the Opera.

She placed the mask on a nearby vanity table, where another thousand masks stared at her from their hooks on the walls or meticulous settings on the table, cluttered with powders and puffs; perhaps the horrors of his accursed visage were not simply confined to the areas he covered during their lessons, she wondered. Perhaps his chin and mouth were equally as grotesque. She shuddered. How could she not have guessed? Why had she bought his obvious lie of wishing for anonymity? She knew for a fact he had not believed her little fibs!

Each mask was set an equal distance from each other, lined neatly in order of colour, or perhaps date. It made the gap between a tearful Pierrot mask and a shimmering gold one even more obvious. So entranced was she by the masks that she didn't realise the commotion outside had died.

She studied the display with a frown; it seemed he had a mask for every emotion and season. Transfixed, she reached to touch the teardrops on the Pierrot mask.

The door flew open, slamming against the chest along the wall with an almighty crack. She jumped, retracting her hand, and stared.

There, upon the threshold, stood her Maestro, his temper as enflamed as his burning, copper hair. His breaths were ragged in his throat and his chest rose and fell in quick succession. His sharp eyes cut deep into her skin, filling her with a chilling discomfort.

He took a step forward and, at the same time, she retreated to the other side of the table. It only made him snarl and go after her.

With no thought to it, she fled for the parlour door, for the safety of the wider space. A roar from behind her seemingly rocked the entire opera house on its foundations, and a hand snaked around her wrist, squeezing tight. A sharp yank cut off her stride just before she could reach the door.

A scream ripped its way from her throat. Her eyes were bleary with tears now as she wrestled, kicked, shoved and shouted for all she was worth. Somewhere in the haze of terror, the vague familiarity of his voice rushed through her mind, his words a tangle, intertwined with hers. So different from their harmonious music lessons, so wild, brash, vulgar even.

"You made this happen!" she faintly heard him say as she battled for freedom. She cast her eyes over her shoulders at the door. A sob racked her body and only now did she realise she was crying like a child.

"Please," she managed to rasp, turning back to him as he wrestled her towards a different door, not to the woods, nor to the safety of the parlour and exit, but towards a place she didn't recognise. "Please, I want to go home!"

"No!" His fingers dug into her shoulders through the dress and for a moment she clung to him, her eyes screwed shut, fearing the shaking she might receive. But it never came.

"You've seen my face," he snarled through the darkness. His hands gripped her arms tighter, but they didn't shake or push. She dared to peer at him through one eye. "No one who sees my face is allowed to leave; I thought everybody knew that!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!" she rattled off, trying to dig her heels into the floor.

"Oh, sure!" He feigned amusement, but it faded back into the scowl and he tugged her along with him with a newly found strength. "Do you know what happens to people who see my face, my dear? You don't even realise how great a favour I'm doing you!"

"Maestro—!"

But he scowled and shook her words from his ears. "People return without their lives, you know, when they see! Count yourself lucky that I shall spare yours! You can never return, woman, do you hear me? Never! Ahh! Not so curious now, are you? No, no, put those tears away, for pity's sakes! Yes, yes indeed; your freedom in exchange for your life!"

Somewhere in her nonsensical pleas, Philippe's name tumbled from her lips. Her Maestro said nothing but scowled harder and clutched her closer, tighter, as he tried to open the third door.

"Erik, I—" She forced her eyes up as he tried to kick the door open. He paused to glare at her as she grasped his dress-shirt sleeves into thick balls. "Please..."

"Please what?" he snapped. She felt his breath rush over her face, hot and close, too close. Only now did she realise their impolite proximity to each other. His fingers still dug into her arms, tense and quivering with rage. She swallowed.

"Don't shake me."

Silence. For a long moment, neither person moved. She hardly dared to breathe as his eyes raked over her face, but then she lifted her gaze to meet his, praying her quiet plea would speak just as loudly as her screams, and his widened ever so slightly.

One by one, his fingers uncurled themselves from her dress sleeves and he removed his hands tentatively.

"Shake you, Christine?" he muttered, only the tips of his fingers lingering on the fabric now. He stared at them, as if he couldn't understand what he'd just done. She prayed he couldn't hear her thundering heartbeats. A rickety gasp escaped her before she could stop it. He retreated by a step. "Keep you here, I will; shake you, I will not."

She tried to swallow again, her only comfort against the hoarseness building in her throat. Her arms wrapped around herself in an attempt to control an onset of little quakes.

Her Maestro had turned away, his head bowed. She watched as he glanced up, wondering if he felt the same discomfort she did. But to her surprise, he chuckled. It was a terrible sound, that little laugh, full of disdain and self-hatred; he'd spotted himself in the vanity table mirror.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, looking back at her from his slouched stance. She tried not to notice how old he suddenly looked, his eyes tired and broken.

"I..." Her words died in her throat. Why had she done it? It all seemed so silly now; perhaps it had been the thrill of the fairytale, or the magic of it all. She must have forgotten that he was still only a man.

How disappointing that realisation was. It stole her words from her. She could only look at him, hoping he'd somehow read her thoughts, for she'd die of embarrassment if she confessed to them.

Ah, but she forgot: he was only a man.

"For God's sakes, Christine, why?" he roared, his voice cracking. His fingers found her dress sleeves again, catching her off guard. Her mouth hung open at that. He hissed at himself and drew back, as if stung, tucking his hands firmly beneath his arms. "Christine, why?"

His shouts died on the air, leaving only the sound of ringing tuning forks and a pair of racing hearts. Unable to help herself, she found her eyes roaming his face, where there sat a menacing black façade. So unused to it, she oggled it a moment too long.

He sprung away, pressing his face into his hands as if it would ward off her searing gaze. A whimper. A sniff. And then—

"Christine..." he whined, like a lost, wounded dog whines for his master in the hopes he might be rescued. Her heart clenched. "Oh Christine, why were you so curious? It wasn't enough just to hear me, no, no, you had to see too."

A scornful chuckle, not directed at her. He sank to his knees and let his hands fall uselessly into his lap.

"But it was not your fault, my dear. No, how could it ever be your fault? You are simply... curious."

From somewhere deep within her throat, pulled from the murky, silent ponds of horror, a sound left her lips.

"Maestro..."

His shoulders went rigid. She waited for his reply. None came.

Instead, he began to shake, as if he was freezing to death. In a moment of fright, she stepped towards him and reached for him. But then he caught her hand before it could land upon his person, and turned on his knees with slow, painful movements, to face her.

His eyes did not meet hers as he clutched the fabric of her dress and sobbed into it.

Overwhelmed by it all, she found herself stroking his hair and offering little comforts, but soon her own tears were dribbling down her cheeks and she ached for her lost father's strong, weathered arms around her and his song in her ears. It only made her sob anew.

Her Maestro had rested his cheek against her stomach, but now he looked up.

Oh no, she scolded herself, looking away from his concerned eyes. Now he'd never look at her as anything but a child missing her deceased father. But of course, he'd already noticed and had sprung to his feet before her.

"Christine—"

She shook her head and offered a teary smile, sniffing it all away. "It's alright."

She went to dry her eyes, but he was already unfurling his handkerchief and nudging her hand away to dab at her eyes himself. She didn't fail to notice the redness of his own behind the mask.

"Here, let me," she said, finding his hand as he wiped the last of her tears. She reached her other hand for his mask and—

"No!" He caught her before she could go near his face again and backed off, pocketing his handkerchief. "No."

"Maestro, you've been crying! Don't ask me to believe it isn't uncomfortable!"

"Of course it's uncomfortable, you— you...!"

She held her ground as his eyes met hers and kept them captive with his own.

A sigh. "I... I shall take you home." He must have spotted her minuscule expression of surprise, because he quickly added, "To your room. No further."

And so it was that, no more than fifteen minutes later, he was guiding her back through the tunnels. A heavy silence hung over them as they went, neither person daring to lift it.

As she reached what seemed to be the hundredth flight of stairs, she noticed that he'd begun to hang back. A frown crossed her brow of its own accord.

"Maestro?"

"You go ahead," he assured quietly, fidgeting with his sleeve and faking nonchalance. "The exit is just up these stairs and to the left. You'll find yourself in the Rotunda."

Another silence. She watched him sadly as he drew a breath, caught her eye and tried a smile.

"Go, Christine." It was one of the quietest voices she'd ever heard, so beautiful and melodic, she found herself moving up the stairs as if he'd put her under a trance. She walked for a century, up and up and up—

And suddenly, there were no more steps to take. She turned at the top of the flight, ripped from the spell with a bolt of shock.

"Erik—!"

She should have known better than to expect to see him watching after her, for he was a Phantom, a spectre, a shadow. And shadows never step into the light.