Author's Note: I honestly didn't think I'd get this posted today - I was at my Grandma's all day - but it turns out I was actually very nearly finished. It just took me forever because I had the tricky bit to do. Apologies for the cliffhanger of the last chapter, but that was all I had and you now how much I love doing that :) I'll try not to keep you hanging too much longer, but be warned: even though there are only two more chapters to go, the next one will undoubtedly be the hardest to write, and seeing as I was busy all day I haven't even started it, so it might not come as quickly as we'd all like.

Thanks to steelelf, jtbwriter, Lothiel (double thanks), mikabronxgirl (double thanks), Melodic Rose (double thanks), Soignante, Timeflies (double thanks), StakeMeSpike04, terbear, Kinetic Asparagus, TalithaJ, Phantom-jedi1 (double thanks) and Kalaia for their latest reviews. Jtbwriter, I hope you got my reply, because was a bit funny when I tried to send it. Looks like it supposedly got through though.

Thanks again for bearing with me, everyone, 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 78

Let me go with you.

Were it not for the plan he had already set into motion, he would have given in, taken her then and there and never let her go. Those hours following the visit to the cemetery had been both absolute bliss and complete torture. There was none like Christine could inflict such exquisite pain. The nights that seemed an eternity ago when she had slept in his embrace since none else could keep her nightmares at bay; those were some of the sweetest memories he cherished. And yet they paled in comparison to the fact that she had slept by his side; that he had held her close, felt her soft skin against his own; that she had cared enough to comfort him; that she had not been repulsed when he had pulled her down. He had been terrifying, cold, distant, and yet she had refused to leave him, had not shied away from touching him – quite the reverse. It was as though . . . as though she didn't care that he was trying to push her away, still she would remain. Since when had he been so easy to read? Yes, he wanted that above anything else, but it had been too soon. Still, it felt like she had seen right through him. Even though it had been Christine, it was an unnerving experience. She had been bold on occasion before, and given what she had said, looking back it was not surprising that she had behaved as she had.

No matter what discomfort her unusual behaviour might have induced, there was no doubt that those few hours had been paradise. When she had placed his head on her breast and sung to him, he could have died a happy man then and there. That she had stayed with him in the morning in spite of his attitude only added to the perfection.

Even as he left her, he knew that she spoke the truth when she denied having called for the boy or anyone else. He was actually grateful to the pup, grateful for the anger the very thought of him always inevitably inspired. Else he never would have been able to tear himself away from her. He had not dreamt the way she had looked at him, touched him, held him. Nor had he dreamt her words when he questioned her aid.

Because I want to. Because I care. You're still my Angel.

And even when he had rejected her, effectively dismissed all that she had done for him, all her efforts to restore what they had had together, even then she still asked to go with him.

But he couldn't allow that.

Just as he couldn't resist holding her that one last time. It was only that ridiculous youth's constant hammering on the door that had meant he'd released her at all before they'd reached his lair. All that she had said and done had convinced him that he wasn't the only one this was difficult for. Watching her as she struggled through the preparations for his opera, he knew he wasn't the only one to feel torture at the present arrangement.

But he had to know.

Katie had left him. She had promised to always care for him, and she had left him. Knowing why it was she had left, and finally, blissfully understanding it for himself, he could no longer begrudge her for going. And he did have her to thank for Madame Giry's 'guardianship'. Yet she had left. That could not be denied. For so long after she left, even at his young age, he had thought that his life was finally at end. Music had been his only constancy since then; as ever, his only reason for existing. Until Christine. She had wanted to be with him, had asked to go with him, but he had to know that she wouldn't leave. He had to know that she would not crave all that the world could offer which he was unable to provide. He had to know that she could be at least content with his meagre existence. Too often had he risked much and been failed. Now, he risked all and he had to do all he could to succeed, else there truly would be nothing left in this world for him. Christine had come to outshine even Music itself, and he could not go back to thinking otherwise.

He had to know.

That was why he had stayed behind the door and listened to her conversation with the boy. She hadn't let him within the house, and she sounded as though his presence was unwelcome. When she had returned, she had seemed upset. Part of him had delighted at this, that it was because of the boy; part of him wanted to rip the fop apart for hurting her, a similar part to the majority of him that hated to see her upset at all.

When the news of his arrangements for the performance had been announced, Christine had been the only one to accept it calmly. He had been gratified to overhear her explanation to Madame Giry.

"It's his opera. He probably thinks he's settling by having the Ravelle perform it, but it's his music: he won't give us a deadline we can't meet."

She knew him well. Just as he knew her well. He saw what the news had done to her, what she had tried to hide. The first time she returned to her dressing room, he had watched her as she sank onto the sofa and simply sat there with her head in her hands for an hour. There were no signs of tears on her face when she finally raised her head – how he wanted to be the one to ease the ache her neck – only a tremendous weariness. The production was indeed taxing on her, as were all of her classes, but after his words to her, she performed as he expected. His opera truly was a masterpiece that would be the crucible for all at the Ravelle. For Christine . . . that counted all the more for her, only it was not merely her musical ability that was being tested.

Many times, he saw Madame Giry trying to get in touch with him, and was somewhat surprised to see the slip of paper underneath the door waiting for him.

They're trying to trap you with Don Juan

Your Christine

So that was what the ballet mistress had been seeking him for. That Christine was warning him as well in spite of the agreement gratified him immensely. That she signed off like that . . . he could not give in to the hope it presented, no matter how much evidence he received to support it.

He had not been surprised that the managers had sought to trap him – it wouldn't be the first time. That the young patron had been the brains behind it was hardly unexpected, though the gumption he'd shown certainly was. He had overheard Firmin and Andre discussing the 'intricacies' of their plan in their office. Their stupidity was a tremendous asset: the amount of times he had been able to eavesdrop on them really was incredible. That Dr Poligny was aware of it and had made no effort to contact him was disturbing, but he could see the old Dean had no hand in it, and grudgingly forgave him for looking after his students.

He had seen Christine's disappointment when she found the note, apparently unread after he'd returned it. Just as he saw how she struggled with the demands of the Ravelle, his opera and the gossip. He heard her calling out for him in her dressing room in those early days when she had returned to it. Countless times since she had tended his wound, he had stood at the threshold of her bedroom, watching in torment as she slept restlessly, reaching out for something. His mind was eased a little when she finally called out for her Angel one night. It gave him hope that sometime in the near future, she would call out his name, rather than a title born of a child's fancy – no matter how honoured he was by the endearment. Each time he watched her as she slept, he longed to reach out and just touch her, knowing that would soothe her as it had in the past, but he would not break his word. Not now that it mattered more than ever.

Sinking into a chair or the sofa and resting her head in her hands soon became a habit for her whenever she was in her dressing room. It was hardly surprising. Everyone felt the workload keenly, just as he had intended. For her though, his opera was meant to be so much more than just the work, and he knew that she knew it. Again, he would watch her in her dressing room – never as she changed – but not once did he see a tear fall. He knew they were just waiting to flow, yet never did she give in to them. She remained strong, but he knew she was breaking: he was breaking her. It was in these moments that he actually felt an overwhelming remorse. Would she hate him for what he was doing: for effectively having her ostracised; for showing her the full reality of his world, that which he had strived to keep hidden the first time? Would she even accept it, him when the time finally came?

One of these moments of doubt had caught him writing the note. He had written it some time ago for her after a rather disappointing rehearsal, but she had swiftly given him cause to keep it. She truly was a sight to behold. Determination would take control of her, she would walk into her place as though the stage was hers to command – and rightly so – then she would open her mouth and out would pour . . . Music. She was everything he hoped she would be. Then when she was finished, she would cast a glance to Box 5 or to the rafters, and disappointment would bring a frown to the face which had only seconds earlier glowed with triumph.

She was singing for him.

But not always. He awaited those instances with all eagerness, yet they did not occur at every rehearsal as they ought. That meant she wasn't always reaching out for him, singing his music for him, which of course fuelled his doubts. At the last rehearsal, he had been making his own preparations for the performance. Having spent months – no, his entire life – waiting and planning for the moment this night would offer, he knew better than to trust that all would run smoothly. As he had stood in the little room above the chandelier, he heard the final rehearsal. No doubt the nerves everyone felt had left them with the resolve that 'it would be alright on the night' for it certainly was not up to the standards he expected. Neither was Christine. She wasn't singing for him. Had she finally given up? This was the last rehearsal, the one that mattered above all others, and this was all she was giving? Looking down at his rose, he saw why: she was exhausted. He could only hope that the spell of his music still held as strong a power over her as it ever had.

Before returning to his home for his final preparations, he took a detour to the mirror. Seconds later, she entered, changed behind the screen and as he had come to expect, sat at her dressing table and let her head fall. Having spent so long watching her, he knew she would not be moving from that position for some time. Silently, he opened the glass and froze. Not a movement, not a change; she remained still, her breathing as even as it had been before. Softly, deftly, he crept forward until he stood right next to her. Taking the note from the folds of his cloak, he placed it just out of her line of sight. Still he stood there. She was so close, he could smell her perfume, hear her breathing, feel the warmth of her. Before he knew it, his hand had risen to those glorious tresses, but he caught himself before he could touch the golden silk. Yet, like the weak fool he was, he could not resist letting his hand ghost above the strands. Clenching his fist, he turned and disappeared through the mirror as silently as he had come. In his anger against himself, though he had moved silently, he had not been careful. When next he turned, she was staring straight at the mirror. He stepped back in shock when she launched herself at the pain of glass, seriously worried that she would harm herself as she assaulted it. As she sank down, he sank with her, his hand resting over hers. It was only as she asked 'why' that he was able to stop himself from opening the glass and answering.

He watched as she read the note, and as her head fell into its now familiar position. She would sing for him. He knew her well, just as he knew his music and its effect over her: she would sing for him, would give herself up to his music, and then she would know why it had all been necessary. Then he would learn if this cruelty they had both endured would indeed be justified.

Satisfied that she had calmed, he retreated. On his way back down to his lair, he heard some of the police who had no doubt come to ensnare him. A clattering told him they had just 'discovered' one of the prop cupboards and its contents, and that they were probably about as capable as the fools who had called them in. The Ravelle was his empire, the opera house its crowning glory, and he was its master. No matter what they tried, he knew the place too well for them to pose any real challenge, though he was glad he had thought ahead and prepared for the worst. Donning the familiar costume and mask with all the care of a first-time performer, he looked at the model of the set one last time. This had gone on long enough. Those incompetent morons had tried his patience for too long and even the joke they usually presented was wearing thin. Tonight, his opera would begin and the fates of many would be sealed.

Including his own.

He should have consigned the harpy to the chorus. As if it wasn't bad enough he had settled for allowing these amateurs to perform his opera; it seemed as though they had ignored all of his instructions and were had chosen to massacre it. Piangi was a joke as Don Juan: too rotund for the part of the ultimate seducer and he dreaded to think what wardrobe had been thinking – if thought had been involved at all – when they'd painted that beard onto his chins.

Then she stepped onto the stage. Aminta, his Christine. She was what the opera needed, just as she was what his music needed. Within her opening measure, the orchestra seemed to get their act together as if by magic. They were still unworthy of his opera, but they proved themselves worthy of the Ravelle. Christine sang as he had taught her and filled him with pride, but there was something missing in her performance. She embodied the character, but she was not giving them Music as he knew she could. Then he saw: she kept looking towards Box 5, and looking away with disappointment. A gratified serenity swept over him. She needed him; on some level at least, even if it was only music and nothing else, she needed him. Finally, the anxiety slipped away to be replaced with all the hope he had felt since the moment he had first heard her voice all those months ago.

At last, the final act began. The officers they had tried to sneak in were now boldly scattered throughout the theatre, though mostly unobserved by the audience, so spellbound were they. The boy was obnoxiously sat in his box, but that was no matter, for the view the fop had would soon be cheapened by the one he would claim. He watched as they writhed and tangled themselves in the provocative choreography, then waited as Piangi 'sang' of his plans. As soon as the tenor retreated behind the curtain, he swooped down and cut off his cry with an easy flick of the lasso around his neck. Remembering the way the disgusting creature had handled Christine, his Christine in rehearsals, the overly-lecherous way he had sung about her fuelled him as he cut off the air in the boy's throat. Those terror-stricken eyes were soon closed, but he stopped when he heard that sweetest of sounds. Quietly releasing his prey, he covered the lower half of his own face with his cloak and stepped out to finally behold his angel.

As soon as the first note came from his mouth, those nearest to him started to look at each other in question. When he lowered the cape to reveal a clean-shaven face, their astonishment was clear. But his eyes were locked on the lovely creature in the centre of the stage. So she had found his gift. As he introduced the seductive duet, she finally looked at him, completely still in her amazement. After all the waiting, he was able to answer the question she had asked mere hours ago in her dressing room. At last, she could know why he had done all of this: for her, for them. For she was his. Obediently, she rose, waiting, her breathing heavy, though he dared not hope he knew the cause.

He sang. In a way that only he could, he wove the spell of Music around her, drawing her to him, so that when he finally gave into the delicious temptation that she was, she did not shrink away in the slightest. Rather, the look of wonder returned. As he retreated though, not wanting to take what she would not give, wanting her to decide; he saw that that decision was not a foregone conclusion as he'd hoped. Setting his mouth in a determined frown, he saw as she looked up at the fop again, opening her mouth to sing.

"You have brought me to that moment where words run dry, to that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence . . ."

"I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why . . . In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenceless and silent – and now I am here with you: no second thoughts, I've decided, decided . . ." Could it be . . .? She had turned her back on the impudent youth and was singing to him, for him, her eyes suddenly burning with a fire he had only ever glimpsed twice before. They moved to the stairs, climbing them, and he could not take his eyes off her. She was bold in her movements, giving herself up to the music and transforming into a seductress, yet magically retaining all the innocence of Christine.

"Past the point of no return – no going back now: our passion-play has now, at last, begun . . . Past all thought of right or wrong – one final question: how long should we two wait, before we're one . . .? When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames at last consume us . . .?" She was incredible. It was as though the flames had already consumed her, and they swept him up as well. Facing her, mere feet parting them, he was granted one of his greatest wishes: he sang with her, and all the world bore witness to the miracle of Music that was theirs alone.

"Past the point of no return, the final threshold – the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn . . . We've passed the point of no return . . ." She was enfolded in his arms, locked in the passion he had inspired, which she had freely given herself up to. He knew what was to happen next, what the score dictated, but that was Don Juan seducing Aminta, repaying her for deceit. Here was Christine, and he could not do that to her. Letting Music guide him, he finally gave voice to the plea his heart had been screaming for so long, daring to caress her sweet flesh at last.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime . . . Lead me, save me from my solitude . . ." She had taken one of his hands in his own. Turning her, he searched her face, desperately seeking acceptance as he went on. Seeing it there in her eyes, his voice then rose with all the hope he felt

"Say you want me with you, here beside you . . . Anywhere you go let me go too – Christine, that's all I ask of . . ."

NO!!

She had caressed his face, he had thought . . . And with one swift move, she had done the unthinkable and torn away his only protection. He had been so lost in his music and his Christine, he had forgotten the audience. Their screams were the cruellest possible reminder of their presence. He stared at the woman before him in tortured agony. Why had she done it? Seeing tears in her eyes, tears of sorrow, he knew the spell had been broken. He had lost. But he would not lose her.

Looking around briefly, he saw the disgust of the horrified masses who had only seconds ago adored both he and his music. So be it. They wanted a monster, they could have a monster! But they would never have him, and they would never have his Christine. Pulling her tightly to him, he ignored her struggles, and drew the sword that he now wished had been stained with more of the fop's blood, slashing the red cord that he had placed there only recently. The platform opened beneath them and together with his rose, he fell through the floor, into the pit of 'fire' and below the stage, away from that cruel world and into his own.

They were followed only by the sickening sounds of wood and stone breaking, and the screams of all still up there as the mighty chandelier, the glory of the Ravelle fell crashing from the ceiling to the stage, sending the entire opera house into chaos and flames. They had consigned him to darkness and so he dealt them the same fate. They had offered him nothing but the blackest despair and so he returned the favour as he took away all that they had delighted in.

The second his feet had touched the ground, he snatched up one of his torches and started dragging Christine carelessly down a tunnel invisible to all eyes save his own. She stumbled, caught on to the wall. Of course she would resist! For all that she had surrendered to his voice; they neither could ever escape the monster that lay beneath the surface.

He heard her pleading with him to stop. What else? But no matter her wiles, he would NOT give in to her this time, and so he kept pulling on the slender limb he held in his own wretched hands.

"Stop, my dear? Of course, you fear the darkness," he spat 'darkness', making it clear where he thought her fears really lay, "but where else would we go, other than the black prison of my mind? This dungeon deep as Hell has been my only sanctuary; true cold and dismal, but I have never been granted any other shelter," he finally rounded on her, pulling her wrist so she had no choice but have her face inches from his own as he railed, "and why? Because of the curse which is my abominable face!"

So lost was he in the horror the evening had descended into – his hopes shattered by her betrayal, her fear – that he all but flung her into the boat that would carry them to his home. He propelled them on so furiously, she was forced to stay on the vessel's floor, clinging to it in shock and breathlessness. And all the while he was lost in his own ravings now that he finally had reason and audience for them.

"I always longed to give Music to the world, but I am Charon! All they see is death from head to toe. Everywhere, I am hated, rejected, hounded out," he lifted her none too gently out of the boat and into his home, dragging her over to the mannequin, "nowhere can I find peace, only scorn and fear. Never compassion," holding her head, forcing her to look at him and pleading for a truth contrary to what he knew all too clearly, he finally addressed her,

"Christine, why? Why?"