Disclaimer: Of course I own none of these characters...There is one, though, who thoroughly owns me...Ah, Erik...

Chapter 2: The Dream Descends Again

She did not know what had awakened her. She closed her eyes again, but her mind would not settle back into sleep. After a few minutes, she sat up, gazing around her room, wondering what could be making her feel so abruptly bereft and fearful, and yet, full of a strange, uplifting hope. She turned to look at the balcony doors, which were only slightly open, due to the unseasonably cool evening breeze. After a brief hesitation, she stood up and walked over to them. Throwing them open, she pulled back the curtains, stepping out onto the balcony. The beauty of the night, illuminated by the full moon, startled her in a rush of ecstatic wonder.

She looked out onto the sleeping rooftops below her, then up at the sky. The tingly breeze played with her hair. She closed her eyes briefly, rubbing her cold arms. His voice now called gently to her... He had sung to her, had composed music in her honor, giving her the gift of his love. He was a man hideous to look upon, but within whose complex soul lay an unearthly beauty that he himself was unaware of. She felt a stab of guilt then, for the sleeping Raoul in the room adjoining hers. He had insisted that they have separate rooms, for the sake of propriety. She had, of course, agreed to this arrangement. Now she realized that she had done so with a certain sense of relief. She was perplexed by this. She did feel a certain affection for Raoul. She had decided to put her relationship with the Phantom in the past, and resolutely turned to a future with the handsome Vicomte. Why then, was she now feeling so disturbed?

Sighing, she turned to go back to her bed. She decided to leave the balcony doors open, although she was sure Raoul would gently chide her for this in the morning, worrying that she might catch cold.

As her head rested on the pillow, she became drowsy. She slept again.

There was darkness all around her. She was on the rooftop of the Opera House, hundreds of miles away, in Paris. The night was flooded by moonlight, while the stars waltzed around the sky. There was a strong, cool breeze that blew her hair out behind her. Then she saw a lone figure, shrouded in black, standing on the edge of the roof. She walked toward him. When she stood next to him, she slipped her hand into his, as if she had never left him. He turned to look at her, and she smiled at him. She knew fully then that she truly loved him. Erik was the embodiment of a pure love that filled her with the sweetest, most painful delight. He was the master of the night, of dreams that swept into her world to carry her away, beyond herself. His soul blended irrevocably with hers.

She awoke with a loudly pounding heart, suddenly realizing that there was also a loud pounding on her door. Someone was shaking the doorknob with great violence, shouting her name: "Christine !" Still drowsy and drifting in the mesmerizing dream, she slowly became aware that it was Raoul.

Bounding out of bed with guilty haste, she flew to unlock the door,throwing it open. Raoul stared at her, chest heaving, eyes distraught with fear and worry.

"Christine, what's wrong? " he demanded, suddenly becoming angry as relief overcame his initial fears. " Why didn't you open the door when I first started knocking? Are you all right, my love?"

She could not look at him, feeling as guilty as though she had just been caught sleeping with the subject of her eerily vivid dream.

"Christine, look at me!" His voice had become softer, pleading. "Are you ill? Have you had a nightmare? Why didn't you call for me if you were afraid?"

Still unable to look at him, she could only whisper that she was all right, then sighed, and turned away from him to go back into the room.

He followed her back to the bed, where she sat down slowly, keeping her gaze on the floor. He came to sit right next to her, forgetting propriety, forgetting that she was clad only in her nightgown, which, although modest, would tantalize his imagination.

"Tell me what is troubling you, my love," he pleaded. "For God's sake, answer me!"

She tried to look up at him, but couldn't. Instead, she mumbled, "I am very tired, Raoul. Perhaps this swift trip has exhausted me. I need to go back to sleep."

He said nothing for a moment. Then he slid closer to her, putting his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head softly.

"I can see that our hasty flight has indeed tired you completely, little Lotte," he said gently. "Rest then. We will henceforth travel more slowly. I shall come for you in a few hours' time."

Giving her another kiss on the head, he took up her hand and kissed it softly. Then he rose and went to the door, while she slowly lay down again. Just before he closed the door behind him, making sure it was unlocked, he turned back to look at her with a worried expression, then silently left the room.

Christine lay awake on the bed, her mind swirling with confusion. Erik had rejected her, firmly putting her into Raoul's arms himself. She had dejectedly turned away, to hold onto Raoul as they made their way along the underground lake.

Why was she bringing back to mind these images? It was all over -- her life at the Opera Populaire, her music and voice lessons with Erik... She had embarked upon a new existence, with her childhood playmate. She had truly thought that this was what she wanted. Yet, this vividly powerful dream had intruded, and in it she had fully realized the extent of her love for her strange, tormented tutor. Indeed, she should never have allowed him to decide her fate for her. Could Raoul make her soul soar, awakening her hidden genius, so that she became the music that she sang? Erik had kindled a fire in her, a fire that encompassed art as well as sensuality. There was a hidden gentleness within him, and she had brought it to life. He had come to love her as no other ever could. She could not understand why he had thought it necessary to sacrifice his happiness for hers, unless, of course, he was unsure of the extent of her love for him...

As for Raoul...perhaps he was really in love with a long-ago dream, a vaguely remembered childhood friend, and not Christine, the flesh-and-blood woman.

Erik truly was her angel, and he was now in pain. She could feel it, and it terrified her. She must go to him at once. Distraught, she wondered how she could say these things to Raoul -- sweet, gentle Raoul, who was so completely besotted with her? So her mind became a cacophony of thoughts, images, and contradictory feelings, tossing her about on her bed, even as the hours wore on…..

At last the dreaded knock came again, softly this time, on her door.

"Christine?" Raoul called out, almost warily. Receiving no immediate response, he quickly opened the door.

"Christine?" he called out again. His voice betrayed his anxiety.

She slowly sat up, rubbing her eyes, as if she had just awakened from a deep sleep.

"Come in, Raoul," she whispered. "I must speak with you about a matter of great importance."

He came towards her, hesitantly, sensing an ominous portent in her words. This time, he did not sit on the bed next to her. Instead, he sank into one of the plush armchairs near the bed, where the afternoon sun sent a shaft of light onto his face. Feeling a sudden irritation at this, he rose to partially close the curtains.

He sat down again, trying to contain his mounting concern, and looked at her, this woman that he adored. She appeared to the unknowing eye to be a rather frail, shy, retiring creature, yet there was fire in her. He was suddenly unsure as to how he was to approach the possibilities that were presenting themselves to his mind. What if, for instance, she should want to continue her career as an opera singer? That would hardly be a proper activity for the Comtesse de Chagny to engage in. It was troubling enough that he had yet to convince his parents that his marriage to her would only enhance their standing in society. Yet, he was prepared for anything. He had been financially independent since coming of age. Christine would always live in the greatest luxury, once she became his wife.

He now squared his shoulders, facing her, attempting to force himself into calmness.

"Christine, have I not warned you about this unusual cool weather? You left the balcony..."

"Raoul," she interrupted, twisting her hands involuntarily. She still could not look at him. "I have to tell you something that I know will cause you much pain, yet I must make you aware of it."

Raoul became very still, holding his breath.

Sighing deeply, she continued. "Raoul, I cannot marry you." She paused, not knowing how to continue. Her hands would simply not be still...

Raoul did not say a word as he slowly exhaled. There was a long, awkward silence. Finally, as she failed to supply more information to him, he sighed.

"It's him, isn't it?" he asked quietly. "You do love him, after all….. " His voice trailed off.

Again there was a long silence, during which Christine felt the tears begin to course down her face. She did not want to hurt him. He could have any of a number of eager, young, aristocratic ladies for a bride. Why had he chosen her instead?

"I must return to Paris at once, Raoul," she said softly, yet firmly. She now lifted her head to look at him. "He is in terrible pain. I can't explain how or why, but I can feel that pain, and it will give me no peace. "

Raoul stood up quickly, and stepped over to the balcony doors. Pulling back the curtains, he walked out onto the balcony, looking around and below at the expansive country view. The late afternoon sun brilliantly illuminated the houses and vegetation of the picturesque little French town they were staying in. The irony of the moment lay thick and bitter on his tongue.

Turning around, he walked back into the room. Christine had not stirred from where she sat, quietly crying.

"Forgive me, Raoul," she pleaded, between sobs. "I do care for you, I do love you, but not as I love him. My love for him is greater than my fear of him. I can't understand it myself. I do not expect you to forgive me. I am not worthy of you, Raoul. You need a wife whose heart will be wholly yours. I now know that I cannot be that wife. I must return to him at once!"

He looked down at her, his heart warring with opposing emotions. He wanted to hate her, but could not. He wanted to pity her, but that, too, was impossible for him. He only knew that he loved her beyond measure, and had prepared himself to face his parents' imminent displeasure at his choice of a bride. He had also steeled himself for the storm of gossip that would sweep Parisian society when his secret marriage to a non-aristocrat became public knowledge. He did not care. He wanted Christine in spite of all that.

He suddenly knew what he must do, if he truly loved her.

"We will return to Paris immediately, Christine," he said to her sadly, accepting the inevitable. "Perhaps," he added wistfully, "you will discover your true feelings once you have seen him again. He did, after all, entrust you to my care. If you decide to stay with him, there is nothing more I can do. I cannot compel you to love me. I would not have an unwilling wife at my side. I shall come for you as soon as I can arrange for a coach to take us back."

With that, he bowed formally to her, and quickly left the room, without a backward glance.

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A/N: Please do remember to review. We writers thrive on encouraging comments, as well as on thoughtful, constructive, critical ones. I would especially welcome comments for this story, since I've been away from it for so long. I've just come back to it, and do intend to continue. So I would greatly appreciate the feedback. Thanks!!