Author's Note: Mega chapter for a mega absence. Enjoy! Nedjmet.

Chapter 53

She was utterly exhausted. The old lesson came back to her, ringing with more truth now that she had lived it once more: the first performance is tiring, the middling performances are improving, and the final performance will drain you completely. Her parents had taught her that since she was old enough to understand what performing was all about. The first performance was nerve-wracked, the rest were meant to be improvements and so they were all tiring in their own ways: but they were nothing to the closing performance which was the climax of all the time and effort, all the rehearsals and shows that had gone before: it was the one that would be remembered by those who had seen more than one – it was the standard by which all would be measured.

To say that Christine had measured up would be a gross understatement that could only be called an injustice.

The two prior performances paled into comparison as she gave her all for her parents and for her angel. She gave her soul to Music, and Music responded in grateful kind. Never in the history of the Ravelle had a first year student been given a curtain call in one of the main productions – and Christine was requested for two! The house thundered in adulation for the sweet beauty with the voice of an angel.

She didn't bother changing when she was finally released from the stage and the ever-increasing throng of admirers. Instead, she simply collapsed on the couch – as much as that infernal corset would allow – and closed her eyes, enjoying the first chance she'd had to breathe since plans for the production had been announced.

This was how he found her, dressed in white, her eyes closed and her lips parted slightly. She truly was exquisite. She couldn't be sleeping, since he had only just heard her enter the room a few moments ago. Then again, the last few days – weeks even – must have been hard on her. Silently, he slid the mirror away and moved to her side. Her face seemed to relax a little as he sat next to her. He was stopped from reaching for her hand as she shifted and instead rested her head on his shoulder. At first, he could not help tensing up, but eventually relaxed enough to risk tentatively resting his masked cheek atop her head and gently placing an arm around her shoulders – would that she was sat on his other side!

"You came." She whispered, her eyes still shut.

"Did you doubt me?" The exchange seemed to have become their standard introduction, but it remained heartfelt by both.

"Never." Her voice had softened, but the conviction was still there. She felt him moving slightly beside her and opened her eyes. As he offered the perfect bloom, she looked up at him, waiting to hear his words.

"You were perfection, Christine. Chalumeau weeps in his grave tonight for the beauty you graced his music with." Christine's eyes widened. Never had his words bestowed such a complement to her.

He moved the rose slightly nearer to her and she turned her eyes to it, accepting the gift. Delicately she fingered the ribbon fastened around it before bringing the bloom to her face and inhaling its sweet fragrance. Turning back to her masked mentor, who was watching her with that look of reverence she had first seen on his face, she offered him the warmest smile she could, hoping to convey all that his words and his gift meant to her, seeing as she never could with words of her own. Hesitantly, he raised his gloved hand to her face, not quite daring to caress the angel he held. She put her cheek in his hand anyway.

"Thank you." She whispered. He sat there a few minutes, lost in the wonder of the moment. He was holding Christine . . . his Christine. She had allowed him the caress he dared not take. She looked at him just the way she had as he had tried to show her his music of the night, the beauty he could give to her. And now she showed him a beauty and tenderness that paled in comparison – one which he had never known, even from Katie.

"I shall let you change. Be sure to rest tonight." Still he did not release her, and she made no move to leave his side.

"I will. And I will come tomorrow." He hadn't needed to remind her. Of her own volition, she was returning to him. All of his fears and she was granting him these joys instead.

The knock on the door made her start up from his hold.

"Christine?" Raoul's muffled voice called from outside. Her breath caught in her throat, knowing what her dark companion had said about him in the past.

"I shall not keep you from your appointment any longer, Miss Daaë." He said before swiftly disappearing behind the mirror. She only had time to rise and see his cloak vanishing into the darkness, he left so quickly. Never had he addressed her so formally. During their early lessons, he had always called her child, before moving on to other endearments. Never had she hated the sound of her own name before. Or the sound of Raoul's voice.

She had denied him for that . . . boy! All that she had said and done, all for nothing so long as that pup was around. An arrogant fool who did not appreciate the gift that she had, the treasure that she really was; who could never understand the power music's sway held over her. She belonged to Music, and that fool would steal her, would turn her into some pretty little ornament, a mindless display to pamper his ego.

He had hurt her. The boy had hurt her last night and not even noticed. Was that the care his rose was to be treated with? It had been all he could do not to snap the boy's neck then and there. She deserved better than that. She deserved better than him. But that child was even less able to give her what she deserved than he. As he had waited for Christine to retire last night, he had heard her stop outside the door that led from the house to his domain. So her disappointment had been true.

Then why was she now with one who would waste her gift, who would deny her the beauty of Music? Why was she denying him? It was these thoughts that turned his feet back along the passage he had just stormed down, back to the mirror against his will; back to Christine.

Once she had let Raoul in and he had lavished as much praise as he could – given that he knew little of music – he finally got around to the point of his disturbance.

"Come to supper with me."

"Raoul-"

"Now, you can't say no." Can't say no? Oh, yes she could! "I can understand you wanting to spend time with your teacher and your friends, but surely I'm your friend as well. Come on, Christine. Let me take you out to celebrate the close of a superb production and the climax of a magnificent debut."

"Raoul, I can't tonight."

"Christine, please, you're starting to be ridiculous." Her face hardened into its old mask.

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Saturday." He answered, perplexed.

"Yes, but do you know what day it is?"

"Christine, what are you talking about?"

"We shared a lot as children, but there are some things you never had a part in, Raoul. Maybe that's why you've forgotten." She lowered her head in disappointment.

"So remind me." He said huskily, stepping closer to her.

"It's my mother's birthday." She answered, finally meeting his eyes.

"But your mother . . . you still do that?" He asked, realising what it was she meant. She nodded.

"Even after all this time?" Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing. Whilst the times had been few, Raoul knew that look and instinctively moved back a step.

"The only love I have ever known is the kind that doesn't fade, even with death. Did you really expect less of me?" He didn't answer. Instead, he tried another – hopefully safer – path.

"Christine, you can't go alone. Let me come with you."

"No, Raoul. You didn't know her. It's something I have to by myself, seeing as I'm the only one left."

"But-"

"I'll be fine Raoul. I can't have dinner with you tonight." He sighed in resignation, knowing that Christine could not be shaken in her familial devotion, even if it did manifest itself oddly from time to time.

"Just promise me that we can catch up soon." She looked at him, considering what she was doing.

"I promise." His face lit up and he pressed a kiss to her cheek, not noticing the way she tensed up and flinched away slightly.

"Until then, Little Lotte." He said, before leaving her.

"Not going to pamper the patron?" The steel rang out, making that heavenly voice sound almost demonic. All Christine could do was cling to her rose.

"I wasn't going to meet him tonight. I didn't know he'd be here." She said, turning to find herself facing her own reflection. He wasn't there: he was the Ghost once more.

"No doubt he will enjoy more of your song." The diatribe continued as though she hadn't spoken.

"How can you say that?" She called out desperately. "You know I sing only for you. Please, my angel, I gave you my soul tonight." She finished on a whisper, her head lowered in supplication. This was exactly what she had feared.

"No emperor could have received a more beautiful gift." She looked up to find him stood before her. How had he moved so quietly? "Where are you going, if not with any of your friends?" The last word was said with a hint of disgust.

"I'm going to see my mother." He looked at her in surprise.

"I thought your mother was dead." Christine's eyes welled up a little.

"She's been dead for over ten years."

"You're going to a graveyard at this time of night?" He asked, incredulous.

"I've done it before. I have to see her. I would have gone earlier, but the rehearsals-"

"You cannot go, Christine, it wouldn't be safe." She stepped away from him, horrified that her angel was taking the exact same line as Raoul.

"I have to go, and I will." He took hold of her arm to emphasise his point.

"Christine, you cannot. I will not let you put yourself so recklessly in harm's way." She looked at him through her tears, weighing up the situation, wondering.

"Then come with me." He released her.

"You denied your friend's offer of accompaniment." He observed quietly, wondering if this was merely an attempt to get herself back into his good graces.

"He didn't know my mother. He never really understood my family."

"What makes you think I knew your mother?" He asked, slightly breathlessly. Was it possible? Did she know? Did she understand?"

"Nothing. But ghost or man, you're my angel. And I know she would have liked you. She had a soul for music as well."

"Leave by the stage door in fifteen minutes." He finally answered before leaving the familiar way.

Christine changed herself quickly into the white dress she had worn the last time she had made this trip, before wrapping herself securely in her thick black coat. Checking that she'd remembered everything, she tucked her rose securely into her hair so that it wouldn't be lost or damaged, then gathered up the bouquet of pink carnations adorned with fern leaves: the carnations, her promise that she would never forget her mother, or her father; the fern speaking of the secret bond of love by which the three were still bound – a bond which only they had ever really understood.

She made her way out the back door, her coat concealing her from the admirers still hovering. Standing by the door, she looked around anxiously, wondering how she would ever find one so good at disappearing, until she saw a shape by a tree across the way; a shape which soon revealed a white mask as the moonlight struck it. Making her way over, she continued looking around, trying to avoid anyone else's eyes.

"Worried about being seen with me?" was the greeting she was met with.

"You were hiding." She pointed out gently. Was that the hint of a smile she saw? Gesturing with his hand, he bid her lead the way, which she did for a few steps before turning back to him, silently asking him once more to join her.

They walked side by side in silence. Grateful as she was for his presence, she wished he'd say something. Giving up on that, she turned her thoughts to the few memories she still had of her mother – the ones that were her own, anyway.

At length, they reached the familiar cemetery and he fell a step behind her as she made her way slowly along the rows of stones. When she stopped and turned down one, he remained where he was, not wanting to disturb her, knowing that she was hurting with a very private pain. She turned to him again, this time openly pleading.

"Come with me?" It was barely a choked whisper. As she held out her hand, he was once again overcome with the realisation that he could deny her nothing. Taking it, he allowed her to lead him to her parents' grave.

Just as she had the last time, she knelt down and carefully removed all the weeds and dirt that had hidden the little stone in any way. Tenderly, she traced each of the two names carved there as she cleared them.

Charles Daaë

Beloved husband, father and friend

Rejoice with the angels as your music returns home

And above it:

Catherine 'Katie' O'Neill Daaë

Beloved wife, mother and friend

The angels rejoice to have thee home again

All these years and he'd never known where she was buried. All those years of being unable to say goodbye, and the child she had spoken of that last time had finally fulfilled the promise. He was finally able to grieve over the woman who had taken him in, the woman who had taught him that a mother was not an evil thing; the woman who had shown him that love existed in the world, and could be a part of his as well.

And her child had finally brought the light of hope to those promises he had thought of as only a dream.

Christine rose from her knees, having no more excuses to stay down there. She unconsciously stepped back a little so that her angel was directly behind her before she removed her coat revealing the simple, beautiful white dress she wore on these visits – as promised. Clearing her throat of the lump that had risen, positioning herself correctly and taking a breath, she opened her mouth and allowed the song to pour out.

"Lay down, Your sweet and weary head; Night is falling, you have come to journey's end. Sleep now, Dream – of the ones who came before; They are calling From across a distant shore." She began quietly, trying to focus on the music rather than the reasons for it. As she came to the next lines, she stopped trying to hold back the tears, yet her voice retained its clarity.

"Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see All of your fears will pass away Safe in my arms; You're only sleeping."

Her voice rose as the music bid her be carried beyond her current plane.

"What can you see On the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea A pale moon rises, The ships have come To carry you home.

"And all will turn to silver glass, A light on the water, All souls pass."

She softened her voice, and as she thought on the words that followed, fear entering her voice as they struck a chord that was all too familiar.

"Hope fades, Into the world of night Through shadows falling Out of memory and time. Don't say 'We have come now to the end,' White shores are calling, You and I will meet again."

Hope gave her voice wings once more; the hope that was promised in the words that had been written with her pain in mind.

"And you'll be here in my arms, Just sleeping.

"What can you see On the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea A pale moon rises, The ships have come To carry you home."

The last note did not sink down into the next verse; instead it rose and grew, granted the wings of the air and the strength of the tides thanks to her angel. At length, her voice softened once more, dimming into the final farewell.

"And all will turn to silver glass, A light on the water; Grey ships pass Into the West."

She took a breath, her head bowed, before whispering, somewhat hesitantly.

"Hey, Mama. I know, I know: no tears. It's just so hard to think of life, to think of the good times, without remembering how many more we were robbed of. Sorry I didn't come sooner. Closing night. I got two curtain calls. Not bad, eh? Knowing you, you would've gotten three. Hope you guys don't mind that I gave it to someone else. Well, I guess you've been watching so you would have known anyway." She startled him by taking his hand as she went on. "You'd like him, Mama. I know you'd love the music. You were right, and he taught me that. I know you'd like him."

The two stood in silence a few minutes, she struggling to hold back the tears, he struggling to keep silence and give her the time she needed.

"I'd better go, Mama. I'm under orders to get some rest – not that I needed orders. You weren't kidding about final performances. Look after Papa for me . . . for us. And you tell him that song definitely needs the accompaniment."

She waited a few moments, unwilling to move. At length, she raised her face to the sky, allowing it to be bathed in the starlight. Smiling, she said:

"Alright, Mama. Lady's choice it is." And once more she sang Lift the Wings, though this time as a solo. It would have been a strange choice to sing for one who had thrived on a life filled with colour and music, but it was a song for a mother who could not comfort her child as either of them would have wished. Like its predecessor, it was filled with the words that Katie would have sung to her child had she been there, it was a renewal of the bond the Daaë's shared that not even death could break.

The song she sang was one of farewell, but not a song of mourning. It was a song of remembrance filled with promise. And like the requiem, it was one he had never heard before. Another of her father's? He could tell she was struggling to keep her emotions in check enough to sing, and yet like the last time, that only served to make it more poignant, more beautiful. Once more, she was giving her soul to the music, but because these were not the words of a stranger nor meant for one, she gave her heart as well, instead of merely singing with it. Silently he begged Katie that one day he might be granted even the smallest portion of such a precious gift.

He was astonished as she began speaking directly to her mother. Not that he should have been. She had believed that an Angel was watching over her; of course she would believe that her parents were watching as well. He knew he would continue to guard her were he to leave this mortal realm – no matter where he ended up. She had startled him by taking his hand as she spoke of him. Until that moment he had felt out of place; a creature of the night standing watch over an angel of light. Though she didn't know all, she still had faith in her mother's approval of him, believing that he had her father's. He was intrigued by what accompaniment the song required – it had sounded lovely to his ears – and regretted that he had not known of her plans sooner. Perhaps he could have provided the music she felt was lacking. Perhaps then, he could have said his farewells also, but if Katie really was watching, then no matter what he would have wished to say, he didn't need to: she would have understood.

When she began Lift the Wings, he couldn't help but wonder why she credited that as being her mother's choice, how she knew what to say. His thoughts didn't last long though, as Christine's sweet song pushed aside everything except the music. By choosing that song, Katie was saying a goodbye she really didn't want to. Christine was saying a goodbye she really didn't want to. And still she held on to his hand. Still she was stood by him; still she looked to him for comfort.

She finally whispered her goodbye – or at least her promise that she would return soon – and turned to him. Though she tried valiantly to hide it, the look of sorrow and pure pain on her face cut him to the quick. He reached up to her hair and took down his rose, offering to her the one thing he could think of to cheer her. She took it with a watery smile and he placed her coat around her shoulders once more. Without moving away from her, though he removed his touch, he guided her down the row of stones and back onto the main pathway that led out of the graveyard.

As they neared the gates, he saw and felt the tremors that shook her. With a hand on her shoulder, he stopped and turned her. Raising her head, he coaxed her eyes open. The tears were streaming silently down her face, though she was obviously holding most of them back. He tried to think of what he could say to calm her, wanting to take away her pain. She searched his face and reading his wish she half fell against him, wrapping her arms around him tightly and letting her tears fall for the parents she had lost, and the mother she could hardly remember. For a few moments he simply stood there, uncertain of what to do. He, who had known very little human contact over the years – that had not been malicious –, was the one his rose turned to for comfort. Slowly, carefully and tenderly he wrapped his arms around her in return, holding her to him, offering his strength to support her so long as she needed it. As her quiet sobs continued, he found himself rubbing her back a little. Were it not for the fact she was distraught, he would have thought this place of death to be heaven for the joy that it was giving him. But she was weeping bitterly, and so his joy was marred by her pain which he felt as his own, since he too knew the loss of Katie O'Neill, Catherine Daaë.

Eventually, she quietened down a little, though the tears continued to flow, and he led her to a bench nearby. Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped her face as delicately as though she were made of glass. Smiling, and with a shaky voice, she said,

"Sorry. She didn't want any tears at her funeral, just life and colour and music – the way she lived. It's why I try not to cry whenever I come here. I usually last longer than this though." She lowered her head as a fresh burst silently started. When it began to subside, he wiped them away again.

"Thank you. For coming, for listening, for being here, for . . . for being you. Thank you." His mouth opened a little at her strange but sincere gratitude.

"Is it always this . . . difficult for you?" He asked quietly. She nodded.

"With Papa, I've only just . . . he's only just gone home. It's still fresh. With Mama . . . She died when I was six. I don't have many memories of her – memories that are my own, anyway. Every time I come here, I find it harder to remember her through my own eyes. I know I loved her, I know I still do, I just wish I had something stronger to cling on to than a few snapshots that grow hazier every time I try to see them."

They stayed there a while as she collected herself: she sat leaning on him, gently fingering the rose he had given; he with one arm that had not moved from holding her, the other softly wiping away any stray tears.

"Christine," she looked up at him, "if ever you come here again; let me accompany you. You have wandered in these shadows alone for too long. I promised I would watch over you: I cannot keep you safe whilst you allow yourself to suffer greater pain than you have to. I know solitude, what it is to be alone. Do not add that to the grief you already feel." She gazed at him in wonder. With the exception of when she had visited his home, it was the most he had ever really said to her in one go. And as always, it was just what she needed to hear.

Surprising them both, she leaned forward and pressed an affectionate kiss against his unmasked cheek before whispering into his ear,

"Alright."

He escorted her home in silent astonishment. All those years ago, he had been wrong: he could always count on Katie. Christine had kissed him! The monster who had had her cowering on the floor before him, who had manipulated her, lied to her; she had kissed him. The only other kiss he had known had come from her mother, but that had not been without a little prompting. This, though, he had earned, had won. And it could not have been regretted, for still her hand was in his.

As they reached her back door – technically his, but he had not lived there since she moved in – she turned to face him again, smiling in silent gratitude. There were no words for the contentment they each felt, for there were no words that would not have spoilt it. Instead, he raised her hand to his lips and reverently placed a kiss there, awed that she still allowed it. When he tried to lower her hand, she removed it from his grasp and cupped his face in it instead, silently expressing her gratitude in a similar vein. He held her hand there, savouring the contact, savouring the bliss, before wordlessly bidding her to retire. She entered the house smiling, transformed from the weeping mess she had been in the cemetery. Transformed by him.

So enraptured was he, he almost failed to spot the portly shape of the Master of the Flies as he led a familiar red head and a few others towards the house.

Almost.