Author's Note: I know I said I would try and have it done by the weekend, but I was very stuck. I actually had it finished yesterday, but that was without editing and I hadn't answered my reviews yet, which is why there was another slight delay. Speaking of which: APOLOGIES!!! Much grovelling!! Sorry everyone. Hopefully it will be worth the delay. I'll keep this short because you've been patient with me long enough, and I am ever so grateful for that.

Thanks to KyrieofAccender (triple thanks), Timeflies, Lothiel, mildetryth, Kinetic Asparagus (11 'thank you's - that was some phenomenal catch-up reading), phantom-jedi1, Passed Over, jtbwriter, Lady Winifred (double thanks), Spectralprincess, Nedjset (ola! muito obrigadinha), Melodic Rose, Nyasia A. Maire (funky screen name), mikabronxgirl, StakeMeSpike04 and Mystery Guest for their latest reviews.

Thanks to phantom-jedi1, Kinetic Asparagus, Nyasia A. Maire, Tiemflies, Passed Over, Lothiel, Kalaia and Nedjset for replying to my Author's Note. Sorry! Forgot to put the PM note in there. But you did give me a tremendous encouragement. Yes, even you Nedjset!

Here it is: the penultimate chapter. To everyone who has read thus far: thank you so much for sticking with me this long. To everyone who has sent in even one review thus far: THANK YOU!! Your feedback has been a tremendous encouragement to me. But enough! For the last time in A Father's Promise: 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 79

He had never seen anything more breathtaking. Somehow, in that moment, he knew it was hopeless.

He had spent weeks trying to watch over her, seeing how anxious she was about everything. Of course, she put most of it down to the stresses of the opera, but it was obvious that she was troubled by so much more. Ever since he had announced his plan to capture that monster, Raoul had made every effort to see her, to comfort her. It was an intolerable position that he had put her in, and he knew that. Almost as soon as he had begun implementing it, he had realised that no matter how much he did to safeguard her, the chances of it being enough were slim – and they became more so as the fateful night approached. Now that she finally knew how he felt about her, what he hoped, he couldn't risk losing her. Even before he'd begun, he'd known it wasn't a good time, that there was every chance it would only worry her further, given how close they were as friends – but the way things seemed to have been going ever since they'd reunited, it didn't look as though there was going to be a good time this side of the 'Ghost' issue being resolved. He had hoped that if she knew how important she was to him, that she might be glad there was someone else there for her who wasn't part of her adopted family; someone willing to share in every aspect of her life, someone who was willing to do all that it took to look after her. He had hoped, knowing that she could, that she would lean on him, trust him more.

Since then though, he'd hardly seen her. Well, of course he'd seen her, given how much time he'd spent at the Ravelle, but it felt like they'd hardly exchanged two words since that day. Yet he still had cause to hope: why else would her eyes find his so often whenever he was there? His Little Lotte had been through so much, he only hoped that this last trial would not break her. Even in their games as children, he'd looked after her, protected her; she'd always been his heroine, his leading lady – depending on what they were playing at. It was as though it was destined: her father had joked about the day the two of them would get married – of course that had been ridiculous to the boy he had been then – and his own father had thought highly of hers. She had been his dearest friend as a boy; now, as a man, he just knew they were meant to be more, together. If only it weren't for this blasted Ghost!

He had watched her during rehearsals. Most of the time, he could see the toll it was all taking on her, and he wished the schedule wasn't so ridiculous – of course, given who was behind the opera, it was hardly surprising. Sometimes though, an almost dazed look would come over her, similar to one she had worn at the Masquerade, and somehow he knew what she was thinking about. That was when, if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn an angel had come down to sing; or maybe she was the angel. His brave little girl; proving how strong she was even under all that pressure. She really was incredible.

The day before the performance, he tried harder than ever to speak with her, thinking she might need it then more than ever, but all he had managed was to exchange a – hopefully – reassuring glance with her. But with all the optimism in the world, there was no disguising the worry that flooded her features as she saw him, no doubt allowing her defences to drop momentarily.

Then it all began.

Almost from the moment Don Juan took to the stage in the final act, he saw a change in her. When he saw her freeze, he had become concerned, and his attention once more became focussed on the night's intent. Then, partway through that song, the one which had raised so many eyebrows, he realised: Piangi's voice had changed. The way he handled – no – held Christine was incredible. At first, she had been still, inanimate, but in the blink of an eye she was responding to his every touch with a fervour he had never seen in her before – except in anger.

Until she stepped away from him.

He wasn't sure if it was in the choreography or not, because the members of the cast who had appeared in the wings to watch certainly looked surprised. When she began to sing, he knew why. She looked up at him, and suddenly he knew who was down there with her. Turning to the officer stood just behind him and to the managers who quickly summoned one of their own, he felt some relief as they were all made aware of the . . .the audacity! The Ghost hadn't been content with merely attending; he had to actually perform his opera. It was actually brilliant, given that they couldn't do anything about it without jeopardising everyone, Christine especially. Of course, this was mostly lost on the young patron as soon as the lady in question turned to face Don Juan.

For the first time in his life, he finally understood something of why she was so passionate about music. She was magnificent. Everything about her was given up to the song, to the moment . . . to the man before her.

They were intoxicating together. With every step she took, he saw her taking a step away from him, and as she reached the platform, he found himself on his feet, willing her to stop, yet unable to bring the moment to an end, so powerful was this climax and the response it inspired within him.

He had never seen anything more breathtaking. Somehow, in that moment, he knew it was hopeless.

The dancers below the pair – the men who had appeared during the first solo, the women from the second – came together at the same moment the duet reached its pinnacle, mimicking the movements of the two leads, though they didn't begin to capture the depth of passion that was so evident in them. Instead, they merely highlighted it further, if that were possible or even necessary. In that moment, he saw the woman that Christine had become; he saw the passion she was capable of, the desire, and he saw it all inspired by and directed towards another. When he heard that voice softly whispering its musical plea, he realised what this had all been about: Christine.

And he thought he'd been willing to risk everything for her.

As she turned to her masked companion, some part of him acknowledged that it wasn't just the choreography, just the actions of the moment that had her turning from him. Her hand lifted to his face as the entire auditorium finally heard the true meaning of the opera. When the leather came away in her grasp . . .

He had to bring her back.

That thing was a monster after all. As he raced away from the infamous Box 5, he realised: she must have known, she'd done the only thing she could to disarm him, to keep him there. She'd taken his defences and left him open for the plan to be fulfilled. His brave Little Lotte. When the screams began anew, and he heard a sickening cracking sound, he hurried back, calling out a horrified but useless protest as the mighty chandelier began its lethal descent to the fleeing masses below. They were all ruined!

But his Lotte wouldn't be.

Speeding along his original course, he headed down and towards the stage, hoping the wreck of the chandelier wouldn't completely hinder his pursuit. Shoving his way through the panicked masses, he finally neared his goal when a familiar flash of black caught his eye.

"Madame Giry!" Catching up with her, he joined her as she hurried along. "Where is he?" Tugging him to one side and out of the crush of bodies, she looked at him, desperation showing on her features.

"Madame, please, where has he taken her?" Even knowing that she was doing the unthinkable by breaking her word, Antoinette allowed her fear for her daughter to override any other concerns.

"Follow me." Taking him down one of the few paths that was unlikely to have been travelled on recently, she led him into the dark passageways the Institute was built on.

She hadn't seen any of this coming! That he was up to something serious had been unmistakeable, but that he would go this far, open himself up to such reckless danger . . . she couldn't have begun to imagine anything of the like. When she had seen the two singing together up on that platform, she had had such hope . . . and now she felt only fear as she remembered the look in his eyes as he had sunk below the stage with Christine in his clutches. As she led the boy along the darkened corridors, she prayed: prayed to Katie that she would forgive her if anything happened to either of her children; prayed that Christine was safe from harm, and most of all, prayed that she wasn't leading the eager young patron to his death.

Her sudden thought reminded her of what she had run from in bringing the boy down here.

"I must return, and I dare not go any further." Raoul looked at her, suddenly uncertain by what she'd said. Giving him directions that should ensure his safe passage through, she left him with one final word:

"Remember; keep your hand at the level of your eyes."

Would there be no end to this torment?

As if those terrible screams had not been enough, the look in his eyes when she finally saw him face to face told her more than any words known to man how cruelly she had hurt him with that one action. Once again the spell had been broken. And her Angel along with it. She had lost him.

And when he cut the cord that sank them beneath the stage, she knew that she too was lost.

The mock flames that gave way to darkness had the old fears rising up faster than ever before, but they were nothing to what she felt as she was unceremoniously dragged down the labyrinthine tunnels, her arm bound in a merciless iron grip. She tried to stop him, to hold back, but he pulled her regardless, taking her protests as further signs of rejection or disgust. When he turned on her in the middle of his ranting, it was all she could do not to cry in pain as his hold tightened all the more. As she sat in the boat, hanging on for dear life, she truly felt fear because of the man she was with. He had spoken callously to her before, been cruel with his words, but he had never been so violent towards her. And there was no getting through to him now.

She heard his tirade, felt his anger all too keenly as he pulled her from the boat; but as he finally looked at her, finally spoke to her, she saw his pain. She had promised never to betray him again, and had broken her word in the worst way imaginable. But she had no answer to give to his cries, for in truth she couldn't understand it either. And had she tried to offer a defence, to tell him he had known compassion, that he had been given kind words, somehow she knew he then would have been the one offering scorn. Words were the problem, so she offered a solution: she raised her hand to the left side of his face in a gentle caress.

Briefly he closed his eyes; fleetingly she saw a look of bliss sweep across his features, perfect and marred alike. Then he hardened once more, took hold of her wrist and harshly flung it away. About to question him, she froze as he pulled the wedding dress off the mannequin. The model of her looked quite pathetic without the beautiful garment adorning it, but that was the least of her concerns. He held the gown out to her, even as they both knew it was no longer in offering. She looked to his eyes in question – or was it a plea? – but was only met with two volcanoes that she knew were just moments away from erupting. Taking the dress, it was as though she'd taken a weight from his shoulders, although the crux of it still clearly remained. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he guided her to the cavern containing the swan bed. Pausing at the entrance, she ventured:

"Angel-"

"Go." He cut her off with a voice of icy steel, and so she acquiesced.

How was it possible for him to be so filled with contradiction? His anger was burning like a furnace, and yet he spoke to her so coldly. Still he seemed to drink in her touch even after what had happened, what she had done, and yet there were bruises forming on her wrist from the way he had handled her. Moments ago, he had sung to her of love . . . he had finally said it . . . though it had not quite been the right words, they had meant just as much, if not more so. Moments ago, he had sung to her of love in front of everyone at the Ravelle, yet now it was as if he couldn't bear the sight of her. So why had she lowered the curtain to change into the dress that had caused her so much anxiety in the past? Why, if he couldn't stand the sight of her, had he commanded her to don a wedding gown?

We've passed the point of no return . . .

She had betrayed her Angel, and now she had the Ghost to contend with; the Ghost who was behind Don Juan, who was Don Juan. He had told her over and over that he would never leave her, and it looked like his word was finally manifesting itself in an all too concrete way: she was his, and she was to belong to him in every sense of the phrase. But why the wedding dress? Was that some kind of illusion, or did it mean that there was still hope, that he still held enough regard for her, that her Angel was still there and she hadn't lost him completely?

Gathering all the strength she had left, she pulled the cord and raised the black curtain which kept her shielded from the rest of the lair. Walking slowly, but with determination, she entered the main cavern, and found him standing near his work area, his back to her as he leaned against a covered mirror.

"Did you think I really was Aminta?" He turned to face her, and though she was startled at once again seeing his face, it was not through revulsion. He remained silent, simply staring at her as though he couldn't believe his eyes. "Does Music dictate that I am to be your 'sacrificial lamb'?" She drew on his own words to fathom his true intent. Moving slowly nearer, he answered.

"You'll think it strange, no doubt: so long I have been denied the joys of the flesh," he reached for her face but she turned away, refusing to be touched by him as he spoke so callously; he settled for stroking her hair "and yet I am Don Juan! Once a woman sees me, she can never be free . . . you can never be free from this curse . . . this cursed face which my own mother couldn't bear, my unhappy mother who gifted me with my first mask." She was looking at him now, had been from the moment he had given himself the seducer's name. Once again she was filled with sorrow over the fate of her Angel. But as he reached for the veil and placed it none too gently on her head, it seemed that what she thought was of little matter. "But no more! There is only our life together, my dear: a life of this!" he cried, fuelled by bitterness as he harshly turned her to him, pointing at his face. All she could do was stare in realisation, a state which only grew when he placed a ring into her left palm, folding her fingers around the sacred band.

She remembered how he had behaved when she had first removed his mask, all that he had said, the way he had gone from a towering inferno to a broken man weeping at her feet in a matter of moments. She remembered how the night before he had shown her all that he was, all he could offer, how . . . alive he had been. She remembered how he had sung of love even when he believed that had all been ruined; how he had sung of love even at the height of his seduction mere minutes ago. Yet now as he gave her the ring, he dared not breathe the words? All because of . . . his face?

Keeping hold of the ring, she took his head in her hands and said what she should have that fateful night so long ago.

"There is no demon here; I never saw a monster in you." Softly, she allowed her hands to brush tenderly across the marred features to emphasise her point before moving to the mirror he had been stood in front of and once again removing the cover. "The only true darkness rests in your soul." He did not look at her or his reflection though his eyes showed a hesitant understanding. Had he finally accepted?

"One moment, my dear, I believe we have a guest."

Her eyes were filled with shock, horror – hardly surprising, and yet she reached up to touch his face. Ever since she had run to him and he had first held her in his arms after that appalling confrontation with the harpy, he had drowned in each moment of contact, no matter how brief or accidental. There were few pleasures he held in higher esteem than when she touched him of her own volition, for few had ever sought to before – at least not in kindness. For his rose to still desire that closeness even after . . . it was the left side she touched.

She knew the power she held, the power he couldn't help but grant her, and she was using it again! Of course, she wouldn't touch the other side, she wouldn't want to caress the demon! She had only ever sought the embrace of an angel. As if a demon could ever hope to claim a seraph.

Enough!!

Whether that was the case or not, he would claim her. She was his. By her own words – whether or not she regretted them now – by her mother's own words, and by his own design, she was his. And he would not succumb to her wiles before that had been made certain. Turning away, he took hold of the garment that he had made with such hope, that still embodied all he had ever dreamt of and silently held it out to the one person who held sway over those dreams. The longer she stared at him, the more he despaired, and the more his fury grew. When she finally took it, his shoulders relaxed of their own volition. Perhaps it was not too late, perhaps he had not terrified her too much, perhaps he still held enough power over her. Gently, more gently than he had thought possible, he guided her to where she could change in privacy. He was not an animal.

He froze as she turned to him, but did not allow her to speak, instead giving voice to his silent commands. He saw the hurt in her eyes, saw a mask of emptiness cover her features. He would not give in! His resolve was fixed, and she would not break it with a simple word, no matter what power was contained within those two syllables. It was what she had mouthed when she'd first seen him, though he doubted she realised he had truly been there. Her eyes had been filled with such awe and . . . hope. Until then, she had merely intrigued him; in that moment, she had begun to possess him. Now, after all his waiting, all his efforts, all that he had done for her, he finally sought to return the 'favour'. Her eyes had been filled with hope, and that in turn had given birth to his. No matter what she thought of him now, his hope had yet to be destroyed: only she could do that. Considering the diamond he held in his hand he once more thought of her, of the path that they had taken: the diamond was unique, exquisite, perfect, pure; as was she, as she had been in his eyes since that moment when he had first become her Angel, even if in name only: the golden band was complete, unending, true, as was his devotion to her. But the gem as a whole was incomplete: without a finger to grace, it was merely a bauble representing unfulfilled intentions. Once again, she had called him her Angel, but he was no Angel and could not offer her that. Nor would he offer her the monster the rest of the world saw and rejected. Who was left? What could he offer her that she had not already shunned?

. . . in your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defences, completely succumbed to me . . .

He had sung that to her, for her, and yet it was her line in every other way as well, for that was what she did to him. She was the real seductress in spite of the music he had created and woven for her, and yet she didn't even know it. She truly was Aminta – no – Aminta truly was Christine . . . Either way, that was what she had yet to shun . . . quite the reverse . . . the way she had looked at him as they climbed those stairs, the way she had felt in his arms, the fire within her that had filled her voice with more passion than he had ever heard; she had felt so . . . alive, had been so alive. Everyone else saw him as death from head to toe – that had been no exaggeration – but for Don Juan, she had been alive!

"Did you think I really was Aminta?"

Turning, all thought fled his mind as for the first time in his cursed existence he looked upon heaven. The gown had been created with her in mind, and though it now seemed completely unworthy, she was still the image of perfection. Truly, she had to be an angel.

Her next words brought him back down to earth; the undertones of contempt in her voice placing him back on the brink of hell. He remembered his resolve, remembered what he had to do, what was needed. Yet he could not stop himself, his true self, from surfacing even under the mask of Don Juan – the only mask he wore now. All that he had been through, all that he had suffered even at the hands of those who were meant to protect him, it all came pouring through into his words. He saw the pity in her eyes, but that was nothing to what he truly desired . . . what every fibre of his being needed. Continuing regardless, he placed the veil on her head, all but completing the picture as he finally gave voice to his ultimate design. They were not the words he wanted to use, not the words he had ever even intended for this moment; now was not the time to frighten or repulse her further and his regret was instantaneous. But she had to know, had to stop seeing him as an 'Angel' or his hope had been in vain from the start; and he could not endure that.

Gently, he placed the ring into her hand and closed her fingers around it. She could not think the worst of him, he could not let her think that was all he was; but he could no longer find the words to ask.

Once again she brought him to a halt, once more she stopped the heart that beat only for her: for the first time he felt her gentle touch on his twisted flesh. As the touch turned into a caress, his eyes closed in ecstasy and he could almost believe her as she claimed there was no monster in her eyes. When she removed the cover on the mirror, he did not have the strength left to look. But he did hear as she acknowledged the reality: there was a very real darkness within him. She acknowledged it and still she had touched him, still she stood there, still she looked at him. Still she waited in the gown of white. How was it possible?

Unless she had meant all that she had said. Unless his hope was true? Was it possible she could . . .?

NO!!

How dare . . .?! Well, at least it looked like the fop had found himself on the wrong side of some of his more interesting traps, though how he had gotten into the bowels of the opera house he could not fathom. At least his strength had returned: the insolent youth had interfered for the last time. Just a few more moments and Christine . . . his Christine . . . he could have said those words and meant them in every way but for that wretched . . .!

"One moment, my dear, I believe we have a guest."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his rose turn in confusion to where he was looking.

"Welcome, young sir, it is truly a delight to have you in my home." As the boy approached, making some overblown plea to free her, the lady in question rushed to his side where he promptly wrapped his arm around her waist, preventing her getting any nearer to the boy.

"He makes a passionate plea, my dear." His voice dripped with disdain, but his eyes never left his rival so long as Christine was in his grasp.

"Please, Raoul-"

"I love her! Have you no compassion?"

"I was never taught any!" He answered furiously, outraged that the fool was suggesting something that made him out to be an animal.

"At least let me see her." Raoul pleaded

"Be my guest, sir." With his free hand he gestured to the water separating the three of them, which thus far the boy had not braved – presumably having had enough of it on his journey down. Cautiously, the young one entered the misty depths, edging forward and keeping his eyes on the water. Seeing his enemy's unease, he decided to encourage it. Casting his voice about the cavern, he brought it to focus around the tremulous path that was being trod, which he silently began to walk.

"Did you really think that I would harm her; that she would pay for your crimes? Did you believe I could ever punish her in your place?!" As his words came to a close, he reached into the waters, drew out the rope used for securing the boat and wrapped it around the boy's neck. Within seconds the noose was secure before he even had the chance to look up.

"You think you can challenge me? Make your feeble plans! Use your position and wealth, fall back on your popularity, but here it means nothing! Nothing! None of it will save you, nothing can, except perhaps Christine." Satisfied that the boy wasn't going to move, he turned back to the figure of his design. "Well, my dear? I am tired of living like this, tired of being shunned by the world, hiding away in the dark. I want to live, just like anyone else. You've been a part of my world, now be a part of my life."

"Christine, what's he talking about? Don't say you love him?!" Raoul asked in horror as he stared at the woman before him, finally seeing her in the wedding gown.

Something inside snapped. That little wretch was daring to address his rose, to interrupt yet again! Tugging on the rope enough to silence him without any real damage, he went on.

"Enough! I have had my fill of this pup. You have no idea how much I have wanted to do this each time he has dared touch you. One word from you my dear and he will be free. But refuse me, and it will be all over with our precious patron." The last words came out as something of a snarl, but the boy didn't deserve better.

"Angel, why are you doing this? Do you want me to hate you?"

"Christine, don't throw your life away. I fought so hard, but he'll still win."

The two young voices mingled with one another, but they did not merge. Theirs was a union that was not meant to be, and one way or another he would see to it that it didn't happen.

"When will you see reason?" She spoke so quietly, he wasn't sure if he was meant to hear, but hear he did. If she was speaking to him, he had no time for negotiations; if she was speaking to the boy, then he had cause for hope. Either way, the time for such things had passed.

"Too late for pleas and pity. There is no turning back: this is the point of no return."

"Do you want her to lie to you for me?" He tightened the noose again, and the boy fell silent.

"Why did you deceive me, Angel? I gave you my soul . . . blindly." Her voice trembled. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes. Were they of sorrow or regret?

"You've tested my patience long enough. Make your choice."

She looked on in horror as the nightmare she had longed feared became all too real.

For a brief moment, she thought she had gotten through to her Angel; that he had returned to her from whatever darkness his soul had retreated to. Whilst he had frightened her, she had not been completely surprised. The moment she heard those screams, she knew she had made a tremendous mistake; and though it sounded weak in some way, she was willing to pay the price for it so long as she could be near her Angel again. But Raoul was not supposed to be a part of that cost. He wasn't even supposed to be here! He wasn't part of this realm, he didn't belong here. It seemed sacrilegious to have the world above trespassing in this place.

But she was a part of that world, just as surely as she belonged in this one. It was true: either way she couldn't win. Whatever choice she made, she would be closing the door on a world which held a great claim over her. Whatever choice she made, she would lose one who held a prominent place in her heart: Raoul was her closest companion from her childhood, the idyllic past she did not have the strength to give up; her Angel was . . . words could not express the place he held in her life . . . in her heart, and the future was even more desolate than the present without him.

Raoul's pleas fell on deaf ears, though his declaration had been surprising. How could he say those things after such a short time? What encouragement had she given him beyond friendship? And yet he was literally risking life and limb for her.

Her Angel's words were horrifying. He was risking everything on this moment. If he killed Raoul, he was as good as assured that she would hate him, not to mention the fact that he would be hunted down with more fervour than ever before. This was the Ghost at work. He had taken over her Angel yet again, filling her world with death and darkness and obscuring the man whom she had trusted so willingly, so faithfully . . . so blindly all along.

The man whom she had trusted . . .

He was not an Angel, nor a ghost. He was a man: a man who stood with three lives in his hands; a man who manipulated, cheated and ruled with fear; a man who had killed. A man who ruled with threats and terror because that was all he knew. Looking into his eyes, she saw the fire of his rage, but also his hurt. She saw the venom with which he held the rope around her friend's neck, the all-too ready willingness with which he would use it, but she also saw his hands tremble. Whatever fear she felt was nothing to his, and that was what she saw clearest of all in his eyes. She had not been far wrong when she had believed the mannequin to be the embodiment of his hopes: looking into the eyes of her dark mentor, she saw that she was his hope. Raoul had not been wrong when he'd said that everyone's hope rested on her – though she doubted he had included her Angel in that.

But what could she do? One false word and Raoul would be lost as surely as she. Somehow she knew that if he killed Raoul, her Angel would never return to her, whether he kept her with him or not. And she doubted if she could ever view him the same way if another life was lost in his pursuit of her. Searching his face, she found her answer.

Wordlessly, she entered the water, heedless of the temperature or the damage it might do to the lovely gown. As silently as the waters allowed, she moved slowly towards her Angel. As surely as she was his hope, he was hers; he had become no less in the time she had known him, in actuality, he had become so much more and she tried to let that show in her face as she neared him. When she was merely a few steps away, she took his ring and placed it on her left hand, wishing his hands were fulfilling the binding task. She drew nearer even as he let his bitter mask slip in uncertain astonishment.

Fleetingly praying her mother would understand that she had to break the rules, Christine stood before her Phantom. Slowly, deliberately, she took his head into her hands and lifted her own so that her lips could trace a loving path across the marred flesh until she met him in a gentle but firm kiss. An eternity passed in that moment. An eternity of shared loneliness and longing, of unfulfilled passion and desire finally answered. All too soon they parted. Christine looked into the eyes she loved, hoping to see something similar there. She didn't. What she saw was overwhelming. There were no masks now. All she saw was the love and desire that had fuelled both him and his obsession so completely. This time it was his head that lowered and instead of tenderness, their kiss was a true fulfilment of the passion that had possessed them both only moments ago on the stage: the passion that had stirred within them since they had together surrendered to the music of the night. They gave themselves up to each other completely, surrendering all else to the moment they had been waiting for so long.

When they eventually parted, Christine briefly saw a look in her Angel's eyes that she had only witnessed once before, when she'd held him in her arms as he slept: contentment. In that one moment, she knew he was happy. In that one moment, she had granted him what he had no doubt sought for his whole life; and in that one moment she knew that she would do anything he asked if it would only ensure that his present contentment continued. Which is why when he broke, when his face twisted into an image of anguish, she was filled with worry.

He threw the rope into the water, effectively freeing Raoul, and moved back to his lair. Away from her.

"Take her and go. Don't let them find you here."

He was talking to Raoul? Suddenly she remembered the state her friend was in and hurriedly loosened the rope that bound him. Instantly, he took hold of her hand and began pulling her away. What was happening? Did he still not understand, was he rejecting her once again? Looking back, she briefly caught sight of his face again. He could not be that broken if he was truly turning his back on her.

He was freeing her.

He was giving her her life, her friend, her world. But he didn't understand that he was taking her heart. Already out of sight of that great cavern, she stopped Raoul, even as she suddenly heard the 'them' her Angel had been speaking of. The masses who had been above were descending, and they were looking for blood.

"No, Raoul, I have to go back."

"Christine, you're free. If we hurry, we can both be rid of this place forever." he answered breathlessly, still struggling after the last few minutes. She looked at him steadily, and taking back her hand, replied.

"I am free."

Hurrying back, she was relieved that she didn't hear Raoul trying to follow her, though she didn't hear him leave either. Searching for her Angel, she found him seated on the end of the great swan bed, his mask in his hands. His one remaining comfort, his one remaining protection from the world, though it was apparently no longer needed. She entered the smaller cave and moved towards him slowly, suddenly uncertain at seeing his soul bared so painfully clear in his features. He raised his head and finally saw her.

Christine

The word was barely a whisper, as though he couldn't believe she was truly there. One of his hands reached out to her, seemingly of its own volition. When she moved to take it, he snatched it back as he snapped back into reality.

"Christine, I love you." The words came out on a melody sung with a broken voice, both of which she knew would haunt her forever. Slowly, she took the ring off her finger, and placed it in his hand, closing his fingers around the sacred band just as he had done with her only moments ago – though it felt like an age.

One word, Angel, just one. Ask me to stay, please, my Angel. Just ask me to stay. Or do you truly want me to leave?

Her eyes pleaded with him, but he remained silent, though his face spoke volumes. His features were filled with pain, all the pain of his life thus far, magnified by what he was doing to them both with his silence. Yet still the love which he had finally revealed to her remained in his eyes, for it would take a great many masks to hide that now that it had at last been brought to the light. He turned his head away, to stare at his hand which was wrapped around the ring, and she had her answer. Whether he wanted it or not, she was to leave.

Unable to find the strength of will to resist, Christine moved to his side and wrapped her arms around his neck, resting his head in the crook of hers as his face rested on her breast. Tearfully, she placed one last kiss in his hair as she obeyed her teacher for the last time. Leaving, she could not look at him again or she would have failed him. Instead, she whispered:

"Live, my Angel."