A strident plea. A quiet accusation. On these do two lives spin.

She must forge a new path, alone and afraid. He vows in silence ever to be near her...

xxx

Borrowed from ALW's PotO - I don't own the characters, only the original road they travel in the plot I create, and any unknown passersby they meet along the way...The usual caveats apply - eventually may be rated M for sexual situations later in story. This is a more traditional look at the beloved tale we know so well, something of a coming of age story for both our main characters, and something I've wanted to try my hand at for awhile now. And so, with nothing more to preface, I now submit to the Phantom's order of silence, as I give to you...

Chapter I

.

Billows of red and orange fire exploded to the black heavens like dragon's breath, the unseen monster bent on devouring the musical sanctuary she had known since childhood. Horrified cries and the anxious shouts of people in the streets faded a little more with each slow turn of the heavy iron wheels. The further the closed coach escaped into the still, silent darkness, the heavier her despair, until at last she could take no more.

"Stop…" she whispered, the audible sound of her quiet plea fully alerting her to the need to act. She spoke more firmly, lurching forward in her seat, "Stop – please stop!"

Safety could be found in retreat, but the whispers in her mind bred only misgiving.

This is all wrong…

All wrong.

She pounded the signal to the driver against the roof three times with her fist, ignoring the burning throb to her flesh. At last the coach rolled to a stop.

"Christine – darling! Whatever is the matter?"

Terrified by her sudden lapse from docile obedience into raging madwoman, Raoul reached for and clasped her hands. It was then that he saw what she had tried to keep hidden.

"Your ring. Where is the ring I gave you?"

A secret engagement – look, your future bride…

She shook her head, stemming another onslaught of tears as she attempted to pull her hands from his. "I – left it behind."

A momentary flash of anger crossed his face that she would be so careless, the token of his pledge to her worth a small fortune. The anger just as quickly died when he recalled all she'd been made to suffer at that fiend's hands.

"Never mind, my dear. I shall buy you another –"

"No, Raoul. I cannot do this." Snatching her hands free from his with a jerk, she buried them against her face and sobbed. "I cannot!"

And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head … the Angel of Music sings songs in my head…

"Lotte, what is wrong with you?" His voice held a hint of disgust. "We escaped that madman. Miraculously he let us both live and set you free. We should be rejoicing."

Rather than encourage her, his words heaped burning coals of shame onto her traitorous head. She reached for the handle to the door. "I cannot do this!"

"Christine!"

She wrenched her arm from his sudden fearful hold and practically fell out of the vehicle, barely righting herself before taking a tumble, thanks to her years in learning to dance. The stones felt cold and solid beneath her bare feet. Strange, when the world felt as if it was leaning precariously to the side and she would topple off its edge at any moment...

The sight of a woman in a bedraggled satin and lace wedding dress drew no more than brief glimpses from the scattered crowd when a fiery inferno raged so close, bent on destroying one of the most prominent buildings in Paris.

She held to her full skirts, damp from the lake and clinging to her bare legs. She only made it a few steps before she felt Raoul's hand grab her arm.

"Christine - what is this madness?!"

"I cannot go with you," she said, shaking her head. "Please, don't make me!"

"Make you?" His boyish, handsome features, smudged by smoke, grew wounded. I thought you loved me. We are to be married. We no longer need to keep our engagement a secret. You must not fear being seen in my company any longer…"

"Please, Raoul, I don't know what the future holds any longer. Don't ask this of me right now! I love you, I do – but I cannot endure this."

She looked toward the burning monolith, her heart crumbling when another rooftop window blew out with the force of the blaze. How could a fire from a fallen chandelier create such massive destruction in so short a time? She gasped, again numbly walking forward at the horrendous sight of her home of ten years being destroyed before her eyes.

"It's him, isn't it? That murdering beast." His voice was ugly. "I saw the manner in which you kissed him…"

And with his accusation, a little piece of her soul died.

"I must find Madame Giry," she insisted. "She doesn't know I left and will be concerned for my welfare. And Meg – I need to find her and see that she's alright."

"Madame Giry knows I went in search of you. She showed me the way to the beast's lair." His voice again attempted to placate her, even as he put his arm around her shoulders to steer her back to the waiting coach. "It's alright, darling. We can send a servant to inquire in the morning, and tomorrow you may visit Madame and your friend if you wish it. You're only distraught. Small wonder with what you were made to endure from that monster. We must leave this place and go home so you can rest…"

Home. His home. The de Chagny estate. Into her beleaguered mind whirled the image of the Comtesse de Chagny's pale azure eyes glittering with disapproval during Christine's first and last visit to the manor. Those words of censure delivered in a well-modulated, supercilious tone the titled nobility used to criticize those below their standing, all said in a private chamber to Christine.

She did not fit. She did not belong. She would never belong…

Unbidden, another memory scorched her thoughts –

A stage. A song. Her walk across a bridge suspended high in midair…

She should not have belonged there either, but those forbidden moments with her Angel had felt more real to her than all the last weeks of make-believe with her fiancé.

"I can't," she whispered and stopped walking again, pulling away from him. "Please understand. My place is here, with the others."

"Christine, what are you saying?"

"I can't go with you to your family estate, Raoul." She shook her head in frustration, feeling as if her words were spinning round and round, finding no secure destination. "I need to stay here. Please go home. I'll be alright."

Choices – could he not give her at least one?

He had given her a choice, which had been no true choice at all. And in the end, he had wrested that choice away, making the decision for her.

Domination. Control. Two men of great power, both manipulating her every breath. What choice was there? Stay, live. Go, die. Destroy one man. Tear asunder the soul. Destroy both men. Rip out her heart. To stay would reap madness – to go would devastate all of them. Either way she would lose – no victory true or lasting.

In the end there was only death. And pain. A gut-wrenching pain that tore through to the nethermost fibers of her being.

"Please, don't…" she begged.

She held up her hands to ward him off while walking in slow retreat from him. She could not deal with this now – how is it that he could not understand?

"Christine – wait." He again grabbed her arm above the elbow, this time moving with her toward the burning Opera House. "I cannot let you walk alone into the thick of this maddened crowd. I'll help you find Madame Giry, if that is truly what you wish."

His manner was terse but resigned. Christine knew it was no use to resist when his jaw got that stubborn set to it, but soon she felt grateful for his obdurate authority. The closer they came to the front courtyard, the denser and more panicked the crowds grew. Despite the absence of his black evening coat and soiled appearance, Raoul was a silent force to be reckoned with and easily parted the way with his authoritarian orders to move.

Mass destruction bred panic. Looters shattered the glass display windows of closed shops all around them, pillaging their goods. Pickpockets scuttled from their holes like rats, as one heavy gentlemen in black tails chased a nimble beggar boy who robbed him. All around the lower crust of Paris gathered on the streets to watch with morbid curiosity while the upper echelon of society tended their terrified and their wounded. Gowns of velvet and satin made a dull shimmer in the night like so many discarded jewels lying on the gray pavestones, soot-coated and in ruins. Christine turned her head to see an elderly woman in torn russet velvet, lying unconscious on the ground in her escort's arms as another man pressed a cloth to the angry gash in her forehead while a woman patted her gloved hand, trying to revive her. All around Christine, the image of suffering was repeated a hundredfold.

I did this. I could have stopped it. I am to blame.

And what of him? What happened to him?

I am to blame for that too.

No, not all of it. She did not cut the rope or bring down the chandelier.

She did not throw everything that mattered away…

Or did she?

In the haze that was her mind, she felt bludgeoned by silent accusation, the harsh truths falling like blows to her heart. While a part of her soul felt strangely disassociated from the madness.

She still did not understand all of what happened. The night had raced by too fast for lucid comprehension. One moment, she made a choice – she thought. The next moment it was torn from her to be replayed below ground in a battle between life and death, with no one coming out the victor.

"Help has arrived. At last."

Christine barely heard Raoul's muttered words over the horrendous crackle of flames and the whimpers of theatre patrons near where she stood. She looked toward the front of the Opera House, relieved to see that the Sapeurs-Pompiers, easily distinguishable in the night by their gold metal helmets, had finally arrived. Yet with how uncontrollable the fiery inferno raged, they would need an entire lake from which to manually pump and extinguish the blaze.

Her thoughts twisted to the dark caverns and the underground lake that was to one man a prison…

Where a kiss had won her freedom…

If this suffocation strangling her heart could be called liberty.

"Christine –" Raoul's voice coming near her ear startled her to the present. "Over there."

She looked to where he pointed. At the front of the throng, her headmistress and guardian held one of the littlest ballet rats who gathered round her by the shoulders, bending to speak to her. All of the younger girls stood terrified in their long white nightdresses, like innocent lambs, while the older dancers involved in the opera still wore their harlot costumes.

Relief poured off Christine in waves.

"Mother Giry!" she hurried forward, calling out the childhood endearment she had not used since she was small. Her guardian turned in surprise, her face covered with soot, her manner weary, as most of the victims appeared. Her pale eyes lit up at the sight of Christine.

"My dear girl!" Christine was enfolded in a rare and warm embrace before her instructor's demeanor became commanding again. "But why did you come back? I would have thought you would be miles from this horror by now." Her curious eyes looked toward the Vicomte standing a short distance behind Christine.

"I had to – and Meg? Is she alright?"

Her instructor nodded. "She is helping others from the chorus bring supplies from the dormitories."

"It is safe to go inside?" Christine asked in disbelief.

The wing where the dancers lived was set apart from the opera house but still connected by a narrow corridor made of mortar and stone.

"The fire has not reached there and does not appear that it will, Dieu merci, though we did rouse the children as you can see."

She also was thankful to God for sparing the little ones. "And what of the rest, Madame. Did everyone make it out?" Her eyes beseeched her with what she could not say in present company.

Madame's steady expression revealed the knowledge of what Christine truly asked. "I cannot say, as I do not know."

"Raoul? Raoul de Chagny!" A man's voice bordered between panic and relief, coming from the right. "Good God, it is you!"

A young man, his black tail coat missing, his white bow tie askew and hanging against a shirtfront that was once pristine and now bore streaks of black came up to Raoul, ignoring the two women. "It's Frances. She's hurt badly, her leg was twisted and trounced upon in the stampede to leave the building, and blast if I cannot find the couple with whom we arrived. Can you lend a hand? I must get her home and send a messenger for the family physician. I shall never forgive myself if she loses the child…"

To speak of such delicate matters in public and among strangers was unheard of for men of their station, testimony of just how upset and frightened this poor woman's husband must be.

"I'll be alright," Christine hastily assured Raoul when he looked at her in indecision. "Go and help your friends."

Madame nodded in reassurance. "I will see to her care, monsieur."

Raoul looked from his friend to Christine then stepped forward, squeezing her hands. "I will return soon."

"No, don't." At his surprise, she hastened to add, "You should get some rest too. The dormitories are safe, Madame said so. I need to stay. They need me here."

His lips thinned and he hesitated a terse moment, but at last gave a curt nod and moved away. "My coach is waiting near the Rue Scribe," he addressed his terrified friend. "We will never get it through this crowd. Take Frances there. I'll have my driver bring the coach as close as possible…"

His abrupt words to his friend faded as Christine turned her back to him. She suddenly felt weak and uncertain, the tragic events of the night and her sole intake of a meager breakfast causing her to tremble.

Forcing her mind to leave the fifth cellar, just as her body had done, she began to assist Madame Giry with the young ballet rats, trying to calm their tears at being so harshly awakened from their beds to see hell swallow their home. The towering furnace before her did not ward off the chill winter wind at her back and she shivered often, rubbing her bare arms. She jumped in surprise when a rough, woolen coat was laid over her shoulders and she looked up to see the kind, old doorman, Gaston, who as far back as she could remember always had a licorice drop in his pocket to spare for a young ballet rat. With his white beard and ruddy cheeks, many of the little ones whispered that he must be Saint Nicholas in disguise.

"Merci," she squeezed his gnarled hand.

"I would not wish you catch a chill, mademoiselle," he said gruffly in embarrassment, and moved away to help the other men.

Her young peers had giggled about his presumed identity and whispered in fright about the fearsome Opera Ghost. While Christine at their age had remained distant from their wild tales, enraptured by the presence of an angel…

An Angel who had fallen from his pinnacle and brought down a corner of hell.

How quickly childhood dreams could prove false and die - though the Phantom of the Opera had certainly lived up to his name and reputation. Horrified anger at what he'd done warred with fearful concern for his welfare – a never-ending battle since she had left him less than an hour ago and emerged from the depths of his icy dungeon into the fire that devastated her world …

"Christine!"

Wiping away the stream of her tears, Christine turned in relief at the sound of her name and ran to embrace her dearest friend.

"Meg, thank God you're safe!"

"And you, Christine, are you alright?" Meg's eyes widened in stunned surprise as she pulled away. "Is that a wedding gown?"

Christine's eyes filled with moisture at her words. "Oh, Meg. It was so horrible…"

Meg pulled Christine away, toward the fringes of the crowd. In as few sentences as possible, lifting her voice only loud enough so that she could be heard over the monstrous roar of the inferno, Christine gave Meg a truncated version of the frenzied three-way encounter she'd been forced to endure beneath the earth.

"I left him there, Meg. I went back to him after he ordered me to go, and, and –I thought he might…but he didn't …" Her throat choked on the final, seditious words, unable to give them voice.

Meg's expression was grim. "Christine, after all the destruction he's caused, surely you don't still care what happens to him? He is evil incarnate!"

Christine drew her brows together at Meg's angry words, her face also twisting into a scowl. "You weren't there, Meg. You couldn't possibly know what it was like."

"No, I suppose not. But what of the Vicomte? He's good and he's kind. Surely you care about him more than the Phantom?"

"I no longer know what I feel about anything."

Even as she said the words, she knew them to be untrue. A kiss made clear what her mind had been sluggish to realize. Reason has been lost somewhere in the fifth cellar, numbed by torrents of shock. She could not make her friend understand when Christine herself failed to find any logic buried within such feelings.

"I went there," Meg said quietly. "I must have arrived after you left, because the mob had not yet arrived –"

"You went to his lair?" Christine grabbed her arm. "And what of him? Was he there?"

"No." Meg regarded her gravely. "But this was lying by a music box."

From the man's shirt she still wore as part of her costume as a lad, Meg pulled out a porcelain half mask.

Christine inhaled sharply, bringing her hand forward like a starved beggar reaching for bread. "Please…" she whispered when Meg instinctively kept hold of it.

After tense seconds, Meg's grip loosened on the white porcelain. Christine grabbed the mask, bringing it close to her bosom. The desperate, telling act erased all trace of her friend's bitterness as compassionate sympathy filled Meg's eyes.

"Oh, Christine. He's a murderer, an arsonist and an extortionist…"

"I know," she cut her off suddenly. "But he was my friend."

Her heart mocked the weak explanation. Lacking sufficient words, she turned her face away to look back at the raging conflagration of a fallen Angel's wrath.

An Angel who was no angel, only a distraught and embittered man.

Such knowledge did not cause her feelings to falter…

If only she could understand the mystery of her heart.

xXx

Miracles were often construed to be from the Blessed Trinity or the deceased saints and regarded with supreme veneration. Such had been the case when a short time after Christine and Meg's reunion, the skies opened up and poured down rain in heavy torrents upon the fires that laid waste to the dying Opera House.

Fairy tales were reverenced by the meek of heart whose lives lacked happiness or had that happiness stolen away. When reality became too harsh to bear, it was easy to believe that an angelic divine being would bend his ear to a frightened child's tearful plea…

Or that the life of a Vicomtesse could be within a chorus girl's grasp.

Yet when the day-to-day ritual of human existence was obliterated by a tragedy of epic proportions, such absurd inconsistencies rapidly melted away to insignificance. Truths shattered the fragility of rosy pretense, shaking the deceived into leaving their world of make believe and forcing them to face cold reality…

It was into that cold reality Christine had been thrust since she dared breach the impasse between student and teacher hours ago.

She lay on her cot in the dormitory, idly fingering the eye hole of his porcelain mask that rested on her stomach as she stared at the low ceiling. The odor of smoke lingered in the air but was not prevalent in this wing, the captain of the Sapeurs-Pompiers having declared the dormitories safe until other living arrangements could be found for the chorus. The main chambers of the Opera House were off limits, however, the theatre in ruins.

A multitude of thoughts clouded her head, as obscure as the black smoke that so recently filled the air. Christine was nowhere nearer to sound answers, all possible choices as fragmented as the ribbons of slumber's fading dreams. Yet with blinding clarity, she knew of one thing she must do.

She rose and silently dressed in a serviceable black gown, the wedding dress having been tossed away with the rest of the ruins. Occasional snores from the weary girls covered what little noise she made. Secreting the mask in a small burlap sack and grabbing a lantern, she slipped from the dark chamber and down the winding stairs, making her way outdoors.

Most of the onlookers had long gone home, a few stragglers poking about the charred skeleton of the steaming debris. Tendrils of white smoke rose to the skies but the fires had mostly been extinguished, what little remained finding no sustenance in wet wood and cloth and slowly dying out.

Christine kept her head down but no one paid attention to her slight dark figure as she hurriedly made her way to the gondola she and Raoul left behind hours ago. A light rain began to fall and she grimaced, wishing for the cloak left in her dressing room backstage. Surely it also had been destroyed. Strong muscles hard-earned after more than a decade in the ballet made it possible to pole her way back into the tunnel with little difficulty. Any exhaustion earlier felt was eclipsed by the pounding of nervous anticipation thrumming through her veins.

However, once she reached the portcullis, a cry of dismay left her lips to see the utter devastation wrought by the mob. Candlesticks were toppled, the candles gutted, those still lit and undisturbed casting their glow on overturned tables and broken pottery. Papers of his dedication to the craft of both music and art were strewn callously on the ground and floating in the lake, most of them torn. The organ had been demolished with what appeared to be a battering ram but was likely the tall gold statue of a god lying on its side nearby, and his throne lay half submerged in the shallow end of the lake. Mirrors had been brutally smashed, their shards of reflective glass gleaming with deadly beauty over the stone ground.

Holding her fist to her mouth and biting her finger so as not to scream in renewed anguish she approached the mirror where she had stood only short hours before in wounded fury and informed him the poison was not in his face but in his soul. Drops of blood colored a thin trail between mirrors, the sight of the ghastly dots making her lightheaded with dread.

"Oh, Mon Ange," she whispered, kneeling to touch a blur of dried crimson, "what have I done?"

"You made your choice."

Her eyes widened in startled shock to hear the bitter answer come from behind. Swiftly she stood and whirled around, facing the mirror on the topmost stair where his voice had seemed to resonate. The candles above were unlit and as the tapestry guarding the tallest mirror was quite suddenly wrenched back, it appeared as if shadow detached from shadow in the tall form of a man, who slowly stepped out of the pane of reflection.

Dizzy, she reached a hand to the backing of the mirror nearest her, devoid of glass, the soles of her slippers crunching in the sharp granular fragments.

"Dieu merci," she whispered beneath her breath, but he heard her and frowned.

"You give thanks to God to see me alive or express relief to appease your guilt?"

"Both," she whispered without thought.

Arms akimbo, feet planted apart, the Phantom stood like a wraith enshrouded within veils of darkness and glared down at her.

"Why have you returned?"

xXx

A/N: So there you have it, (though I know by this opening it is difficult to really see where I'm taking this story). It promises to be quite a journey full of twists and turns... Interested for more?