Author's Note: Thanks to Lothiel, Busanda, Melodic Rose, Carol ROI, jtbwriter, Timeflies, Lady Winifred, Ohpoorerik, KyrieofAccender, Spectralprincess, Freetrader, TalithaJ, Passed Over, montaquecat, mildetryth and snowflake17 for their latest reviews.

Word of warning: I do believe the first half of this chapter is what could be described as angst, but it is beneficial to the plot, but if that isn't your thing, you've been warned.

Now, seeing as a few of you were jumping up and down over what he did to Madame Giry, I've addressed that here. And by way of apology for all the delays - and because I just couldn't seem to stop writing this - here's a mega chapter for you. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 70

Fingering the crumpled and now blackened rose petals, he looked once more at the bound manuscript before him. It was his masterpiece. Every note he had written before now had finally culminated into one complete score. It was everything that he was. How right was it then that the source of his masterpiece and his inspiration, the one instrument he had crafted into perfection beyond all others should grant him this . . . vision by betrayal? How true a picture of his life was it that he was granted the key to his triumph by a hand wielding the most bitter of blades?

The colour had faded from the petals, their shape twisted and distorted; there was no beauty left in them now, save perhaps in the memory of what had once been. His gift to her, and she had returned it. Empty. He had offered her all that he was, given her the finest music of his creation, taught her the beauty of the shadows she ran from, brought her to life. And she had willingly taken it all. And she had run. Leaving him with the cold stab of rejection. It was a blow he had felt countless times in his life, but never had it been so cruel, not even as a child when he had received it from his own mother.

When she had returned to his domain that night he had hoped . . . what? Even now he could not find the words. What hope was there for a creature like him?

Christine

The forbidden name crept past his lips, or had he whispered it so much into these lifeless caverns that it simply echoed back to him of its own accord? One word. One name. Just a little thing. How often were such things taken for granted by those in the world above, by those who had use of such things? How often must she hear it said to her each day without even realising its power? So rare had he given it to her, for he treasured its possession too much to squander it; for within that name was sweeter music than he could ever hope to write, within that name was the answer: his hope.

No more.

Amazingly, he had been glad of those incompetent fools who presumed upon the title of 'police', for they had granted him his precious solitude in what would otherwise have been a very busy – and noisy – time of the year. Ordinarily, all the chaos and stresses of the end of year activities would have filtered down into his lair, but now there was only . . . silence. Blissful quiet in which to lose himself. Peace in which to let his music flow. But the music had not flowed this time: it had shattered through everything, settling for nothing less than complete dominance over all.

Until she came.

Even amidst the tumult of notes clamouring for supremacy, he still heard her. She had returned to him? Fool! She had made herself perfectly clear on that score. What then? Had she come to complete her betrayal? Was it not enough that she had chosen that pathetic boy, she now had to reveal his sanctuary to the world, to lay him open to their censure? Until that moment, he had never been tempted to raise a hand against her, but as he reached for the familiar length of rope, he could not stop the thought from entering his mind. It soon fled, to be replaced by an overwhelming self-contempt that threatened to choke him. Raising his eyes to his potentially greatest masterpiece, he looked into her eyes, willing them to come to life, to see that calm, serene face look on him without fear or abhorrence. It did not happen. Of course not. Mannequins do not come to life beyond the stage, and yet some small measure of that serenity still passed onto him, pushing those previous thoughts aside.

Whatever she had come for, he would face it. This was still his domain, and he still remained a force to be reckoned with. And it was time for her to remember that.

Taking the familiar route, he soon found himself behind the mirror, though he refused to let his presence be felt by her in any way.

What power was it she held that she could crush even his most iron of resolves simply by being there?

The sight of her curled up on the couch brought the memories flooding back of when he had last seen her there, of the way he had called out to her, held her; of the way she had clung onto him as though he was the very air she breathed. She had trusted him them, had called him 'Angel', had-

Enough!

When she got up, he was startled, disbelieving that she could have heard him. Surely she had not made him so remiss in his habits? She paced, a frown creasing her soft brow. Were her thoughts of him, of being within his realm, now so troubled that she could not even sit still? He was astonished when she threw herself back onto the couch and curled up underneath a blanket. She wished to sleep here? Why not in the sanctuary Antoinette had no doubt provided?

Seeing that her eyes were closed, he silently slipped out from his hiding place and moved so that he could see her better, whilst remaining beyond her sight. Her face remained troubled. Until her lips began to move. He could not help moving forward to try and catch some sound from her, wondering at her thoughts. He froze as his wish was granted. Softly, ever so softly, she was singing Lift the Wings again.

He sank against the wall. Even though there was barely breath behind her singing, even though she was not using her voice to anything like its full potential, it was still so beautiful. As her voice died away into sleep, so did her frown.

She used to sing that song as a goodbye . . .

The beauty of the moment was shattered. It had been her mother's farewell to him, and now she was . . . ? NO!! She dared presume to take shelter in his realm, simultaneously turning away from him for good? Oh, no doubt she found something touching in the fact that she was saying goodbye in a musical way and sought to lessen whatever it was she feared by trying to evoke one of their pleasanter memories. Yes, she was a clever little minx, wasn't she?

But he was NOT to be used and discarded so.

And yet she still had this hold over him. When he left the note for her, he could not keep his resolve, instead turning to look at her one more time as she lay peacefully. His hand reached out of its own volition and ghosted along her jaw, though he retained enough resolve that he didn't touch. He didn't bother thinking about why he couldn't keep his resolution, didn't dare – although he already knew.

When he returned that way to take care of a few 'housekeeping' matters within the theatre, he was stopped short when he saw the envelope still lying on the table, with no sign of her. His fists had clenched in a rage that she dared to ignore him. Until he realised that it was not the same envelope. Curious, he took it, surprised at its slight bulkiness. It bore her scent, though not so much as the other notes that she had left for him before now. Opening it, he was astonished by the contents. Tipping a few of the twisted crimson shapes out onto his gloved palm, he wondered at them. It was only when the black ribbon dropped onto the floor that realisation dawned. Frozen, he stared dumbly down at it until at length, he mechanically crouched down and lifted it between his hands. Closing his eyes against the fresh onslaught of pain, he was suddenly thankful he was no longer standing, for he surely would have fallen.

She was gone.

In trying to have the last word, he had lost her.

Crumpling along with the envelope now in his fist, he could not stop the few tears that slipped past his clenched eyelids. She was gone. By his hand, she was gone. Calling on countless lifetimes' worth of dealing with pain, he forced all the heartbreak down and away, leaving only the most cast-iron of resolves left. She may be trying to cut him off, but so long as she remained at the Ravelle, she would still be under his wing.

By his hand, she was gone, but by his hand she would return.

It was with no small amount of consternation that he had greeted Antoinette that day. Having left him several notes, she had undoubtedly come to chastise him over his actions at Il Muto, no matter that it had all been for the sake of her ungrateful charge. He had thought she'd taken the hint when they'd stopped a day or two ago – once lost to his music, he never could keep track of time – but it seemed that some sort of dialogue was unavoidable.

It was awfully good of her to attempt some civility, but he had no patience for her games, and so refused to humour her when she asked his intentions. No matter what she asked, she would undoubtedly side with her 'daughter' and the interests of the Ravelle, and so he was quick to put an end to the conversation.

Christine

She said it. The forbidden name. She had uttered it. Was she trying to add to his torment with that sweet mockery? He faced it head on, acknowledging the truth, though it was the first time he had given it voice: his most fervent supporter in more years than he cared to remember, his most faithful devotee had finally opened her eyes and, just like everyone else, now knew him for the monster he truly was. And since she now offered only rejection after all he had done, he returned the favour, even if the words had as much meaning behind them as if he had been praising Carlotta's singing abilities.

It was only when she reminded him of her warning that she finally succeeded in garnering his full attention. He had not remembered it before then, having thought there was nothing she could do that he would be unable to prevent, having thought there was nothing she would have had to do. Then it struck him: the notes had stopped for a time. Surely . . .

As she advocated her daughter, he once more felt the full weight of his crimes – not against humanity – he cared about as much for that as they did for him – but what he had done to her. He remembered how pale her face had been on the roof, how her features had been as stricken as when he'd taken her from the house after the last performance of Hannibal. And he knew without a doubt that Madame Giry's threat was about to prove far less than idle. Though he dreaded hearing it, he still had to ask. Her answer plunged him back into the storm that had overwhelmed his world since she had fled from him. He let the black waves consume him, knowing there was no other solace, no other retribution, and knowing there was no other way to have his decree fulfilled.

She would return.

As the weeks passed, and the school came to life once more, he resisted the temptation to either haunt the corridors of the Ravelle – his reputation, no doubt, did not require any assistance in spreading – or to check his house and see if its occupant had returned. Keeping himself within his dark domain, he poured everything into the work he had begun for her, and for her it would be completed, though its purpose had significantly altered since those halcyon days when he had almost been able to forget what he truly was.

But no matter how he kept himself shut away from the world, the world inevitably filtered down into his realm and he soon heard whisperings. So they were still adhering to the usual traditions? No doubt in an effort to convince themselves that all was well, that things had returned to normal. And no doubt his 'absence' would aid in that. The thought raised his lips up into something of a smile. Yes, they would believe all was well, that they had their precious 'school' back. They could enjoy their ignorance, but the time for their misguided folly was fast running out. For the time to reclaim his kingdom – and all else that was his – was fast approaching.

He looked down at the completed score again. The culmination of his life's work lay within the crisp white pages, and the black notes epitomised all that he was. Fingering the ruined petals one last time, he strengthened his resolve. The rose had been a symbol of all that he offered her, and this was how she had returned it: devoid of any life or beauty. That was the lesson that lay within the bound covers – along with the repercussions which would soon be learnt.

The cast was assembling, the stage was set, and the score was ready.

It was time for them once again to dance to his tune.

It was a mistake to come.

She'd known it as soon as Raoul had even mentioned the idea, but no matter how many arguments she came up with, there was one that overrode them all: she might finally have a chance to see him again. Having spent the last Halloween trying to keep to herself after the little fracas with Carlotta, she had completely missed the legendary celebrations the Ravelle held each year.

The idea of a ball sounded enchanting: an evening of music and dancing that would draw her out of herself. Ever since she had returned, the whole place had felt empty somehow, as though he was no longer there, even in the shadows. She had spent several nights letting her pillow absorb the tears she shed at the thought, until Mother Giry had assured her that this was not the case. Upon great persuasion, and a complete lack of any sign of the resident Ghost, Christine had finally been allowed to return to the house. Were it not for the chilling absence she still felt, it would have been like coming home. But the absence was there, pervading everything, even her dreams which were no longer filled with that music, with his voice. And so she had withdrawn again, to become the shell that she was last year: a child of Music who dwelt in silence.

Raoul had been wonderful, trying to draw her out of the quiet with memories of their childhood together, or when they became upsetting he would tell her of his school, the various activities he got up to and the fencing tournament he'd won over the summer. She heard the gossip when it became apparent how much time the young patron was spending with her, and so she tried to maintain some sort of distance, and yet he was determined. Either he didn't see, or he didn't care what people thought. She hoped it was the latter, because she could at least admire that.

When he'd asked her to accompany him to the Halloween ball, she'd finally understood the reason for his determination. He wasn't simply pursuing an old friendship, no matter how close it had been. Everyone's suspicions had been right. Everyone's. And he was making her face it at last. She had agreed to go with him, strictly on the condition that they go as friends. Though she couldn't find a way to phrase it that wasn't clichéd, she had just about managed to explain that anything else was impossible, since his position could jeopardise her career – which he still couldn't quite grasp, though he had accepted it graciously.

It was only a week before that she had finally found out what kind of ball it was when Meg had asked whether her mask would be a character or a domino. Realising it was a masquerade, she'd turned an interesting shade of white and after calming her down, had told Meg that it would be a surprise. Indeed it would, for even she hadn't known at the time. She had originally planned on an old-fashioned pink and white dress, perhaps symbolising some character from The Nutcracker or The Sleeping Beauty. But as soon as she had time to herself, her thoughts were filled with masks and she knew that her original idea simply wouldn't do.

It was a celebration held in his Opera House. It would be a sea of music and masks. It would be his world. And she knew there were none who'd seen it as she had. She'd spent the rest of the week wandering around the town when she had the time. Eventually, in a small boutique hidden away, she saw it. It was a long evening gown in a deep red that hugged her figure, flaring at her hips into a full skirt, which could not be seen fully unless she twirled. That was owing to the black net mesh which almost disguised the colour and was sewn on top of it, heavily decorated in an elaborate bead and sequin pattern. The straps were thin, the v-neck dipped low, but not immodestly, and the design accentuated all her curves. It didn't reach the floor, allowing the sequins on the black stilettos she had found to sparkle and add to the effect. Once she had given her hair a bit more curl, painted her nails a deep red, her lips to match, and added a smoky look to her eyes, she was almost unrecognisable. The withdrawn shell had been replaced by an enchanting seductress. As she put on the black domino mask that she had decorated with red sequins in a similar pattern to her dress, she looked at herself. There was something missing.

Tentatively, she reached for her treasure trove and took out the velvet box. Opening it, she looked once more upon the delicate necklace that her Angel had given her. The yellow rose of friendship had been her offering. He had returned it with one of crimson hue.

Surrounded by the gaudy costumes and whirling dancers, all smiling and revelling – most in an already drunk fashion – she fingered the pendant once more. The rest did not matter. Somehow she knew he would be here. She didn't think there would be any ghost hunts this year, and he could not leave this place alone for so long, not after everything . . . She had offered a yellow rose, he had offered a red. Now it was her turn to again to make an offering.

"So-o?" Raoul offered her the glass of punch she had sent him to fetch, having needed a little space – if such a thing were possible in the crush that filled the ornate foyer of the main theatre.

"So?" she answered innocently, knowing full well what he was after.

"What did you come as? Come on, Christine, we're here now. You said you'd tell me." She smiled at him, wondering again at his choice of a nineteenth century French soldier – he was still too boyish to pull it off. Leaning forward conspiratorially, she whispered into his ear:

"The Rose of Night." His brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Well, I don't get it, but you, Mademoiselle, are simply too beautiful to question, save for this: may I have this dance?" which he punctuated with a flourished bow.

"You are too kind, Sir." She laughed, playing along. Raoul swept her up into the dance. Given that so many of the staff and students had received dance training at some point, the Ravelle balls were not simply dressed up discos. They truly lived up to their titles, often elaborately so. Raoul danced quite well, having attended many such occasions through his life, due to his family's position. Christine danced with the natural grace that came of having Madame Giry as her second mother for as long as she could remember, and practising with Meg – although she'd thankfully grown out of the habit of dancing the man's part quite some time ago.

The dancing went on and on, and owing to the masks, the otherwise-ostracised Christine was never without a partner. Many tried to guess at who she was, but she refused to speak to the majority, enjoying the mystery, and the ease with which she was swept into it all. But it was not long before she was dancing absent-mindedly, the steps coming out of habit, rather than a desire to move to the music. Something didn't feel quite right, or at least, something was different . . .

The dance became one where partners were constantly exchanged, Christine found herself being whirled around, barely registering the grinning masks before she was met with another. Coupled with her general feeling of unease, she soon became anxious and longed to break free of the dance. She was spun around one last time, her skirt whirling and shimmering about her before she slammed into an unyielding pillar. She would have fallen but she was caught by a strong pair of very familiar hands. Instantly sinking into the embrace, she shut her eyes and allowed her partner to guide them away from the main body of the dance and into the shadows.

Realising that they'd stopped, Christine steadied herself and finally dared to look up at her partner. She was grateful for his hold on her, for it was the only thing that kept her on her feet at that moment. Though the mask covered his entire face, she would have known those eyes anywhere, for none other could burn the way his did. She sank against him as she continued to stare, but he did not let her fall. At some point her mouth must have fallen open though, for the hand that held hers, let go and moved to close it, his familiar leather glove brushing lightly against her chin, before ghosting lightly along her jaw. They remained locked like that, though neither could say for how long. They simply stared at each other, transfixed by some strange spell, drinking in the sight of each other as though they had been dying of the thirst.

Angel

It was barely a whisper, but they both heard it.

And in the next moment, Christine wished she could take it back. It broke the spell. He pushed her away from him, though not forcefully as his face hardened to be as unreadable as the mask she couldn't quite see. Somehow, she knew the bow he offered her was a mocking one. There was no chance to say anything else, for as soon as he straightened, he wrapped the black cloak around him and disappeared into the shadows – but not before she had spied a flash of . . . red?

She was startled out of her reverie when Raoul found her. After making sure she was alright, he wrapped his arms comfortingly around her – either not quite convinced, or making most of the opportune moment – and they watched the rest of the dance. The music was very good. The Ravelle had hired a small orchestra, which gave the in-house musicians a chance to enjoy the festivities along with the rest of their peers. As was to be expected, those on the dancing courses had the most partners, and those in the wardrobe departments had the most elaborate costumes – except for Carlotta who seemed to have gone all out to flaunt herself, now that she was considered to be re-established as the resident Prima Donna. Most had gone for a theme of black, white or gold. But Christine didn't mind sticking out, knowing who she had dressed for, wishing it was his embrace she was in again. She wondered at his actions: why had he danced with her? Why had he held her so carefully and . . . possessively, only to thrust her away at the first opportunity?

Raoul gave her a little squeeze in an attempt at comfort when he heard her sigh. She hadn't realised it had passed her lips, but she smiled at him in acknowledgement before turning her eyes back to the main floor. There were Firmin and Andre, fawning over Carlotta and Ubaldo. She spied Meg in a dangerously low-cut swan costume that her mother seemed determined to make a little less revealing, even though she was surrounded by admirers – or perhaps because of that. When Madame Giry realised she was being watched, she turned and met Christine's eyes, offering the slight smile that was reserved solely for her daughters, before it faded into a worried frown as she saw who held her second daughter. Christine wondered at this. Did Mother Giry suspect, or know something? She scanned the floor, looking for some sign of her Dark Angel, knowing that she hadn't imagined him, that he was here – and she tried to think of some way of getting out of Raoul's arms.

The sea of swirling faces moved almost as one body, a glittering spectacle that would astound any who beheld it. The merry-go-round was inhuman, and hiding all so that none could ever be found. And yet she searched on, for even amidst the sea of smiles, she knew she could find him. The music swelled, drowning out everything; the atmosphere was electric, weaving everyone into its heady mix.

But even before someone played a false note, causing the music to take a sombre, ominous turn; even before that, she saw.

At the top of the main staircase was the most breathtaking sight she had ever looked upon. The shadows and their mantle were discarded: there, clothed from head to toe in the most vivid scarlet stood her Angel, a skull mask covering most of his face, a sword of a similar design at his side and a bound book in one hand. He stood staring down in mastery at the menagerie of figures that had frozen in horror. There was no ignoring him now; in that one moment, simply by appearing, he had cast aside all doubt: everyone felt his dominance over them.

And in that one moment, simply by appearing, he had cast aside all doubt: Christine knew that she loved him.

AN: (Ducks oncoming missiles) OK, I know that's an evil cliffy, but as is always my excuse: I couldn't resist. BTW, I have that dress of Christine's, which is why it's in there - that and it works.

Now, I have been torturing my reviewers with hints for quite a while now, and it's finally time to satisfy some curiosity. This story started because I got some ideas in my head for what takes place AFTER the movie (well, this version of it), and so I have a question for you: do you want a sequel to this story, or not? I do have ideas, and I know a sequel would work as a complete story. I do need this question answered soon so I know how to write the ending. It's all down to you guys. I REALLY want to write a sequel, but if you want the story to end sooner rather than later, I will (grudgingly (who said that?)) respect that and try and use the ideas in some other way. But PLEASE let me know ASAP, whether it's in a review or a PM. Thanks again, and I'll try and get the next bit written soon for you. N.