.
xoxo
.
Chapter Thirteen: Christine Spoke Of An Angel
Previously,
The Stage Of The Opera, The Palais Garnier Opera House Paris, France, September, 1894
Erik pulled her closer, running his fingers over her cheeks as his lips captured hers. Christine melts into his embrace returning the same passion and clutched at his coat. She let out a sigh of relief, as their mouths met. The engagement ring in his pocket burned against his jacket pocket.
"I am your Angel of Music... Come to me, Angel of Music…"
He sung to her as she let's out little giggles in delight as her lover pressed his kisses all over her neck.
Erik pulled Christine closer, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of her cheek before his lips claimed hers with a hunger that stole her breath away. She melted into his embrace, her body pressed against his as she returned his passion with equal fervour. Her hands grasped at the rich fabric of his coat, pulling him closer as a soft sigh escaped her lips, a wave of relief washing over her when their mouths met. He could feel the weight of his engagement ring in his pocket a constant, reminder of their future together.
"I am your Angel of Music... Come to me, Angel of Music…"
His voice, low and filled with devotion, flowed to her like a tender lullaby. Christine's heart fluttered, a quiet giggle escaping her as Erik's lips moved from hers to her neck, his kisses slow and deliberate. Each soft press of his lips against her skin was a whispered vow, each touch a delicate stroke of affection that left her breathless.
.
xoxo
.
The Palais Garnier's Theatre, The Palais Garnier Opera House, Paris, France, September, 1894
Raoul strode through the towering doors of the Palais Garnier, a single red rose clutched tightly in his hand, his heart light at the thought of seeing Christine again. He had missed her more than words could express, and the anticipation of their meeting filled him with a deep sense of joy. Her voice had always been a balm to his soul, and as he entered the vast halls of the opera house, he smiled, the sound of her sweet melody reaching his ears, echoing softly through the grand corridors of the building. But something felt... wrong. There was a strange stillness in the air. No hurried footsteps of cast members preparing for rehearsals, no sounds of vocal exercises or the rustling of costumes. It was as if the life of the opera house had been momentarily silenced.
André hadn't mentioned a rehearsal today, nor did it make sense that Christine would be practicing when she should be resting her voice. She had a new life to learn, one that would soon be filled with the duties of a vicomtesse. Shouldn't she be preparing for her future with him, learning how to navigate the world that awaited them both?
His confusion deepened as he moved toward the auditorium. The usual hum of activity—the performers rushing about, the staff organising last-minute details—was completely absent. No one seemed to be preparing for the evening's performance. The silence in the air felt almost unnatural, amplifying the uncertainty that tugged at him.
Then, it happened.
He heard it.
That voice.
It was unmistakable. Christine's voice—the one he had heard from behind the walls of her dressing room so many times, so full of yearning and passion, yet always out of his reach. But now, it reverberated throughout the opera house with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine. It filled the grand space, swirling and echoing in the empty corridors like a ghost calling out from the shadows. It was as if the entire Palais Garnier had absorbed her voice, and now it resonated in every corner, in every stone, in every beam of light.
Raoul's footsteps quickened, drawn by the pull of her song, and yet, something in his chest tightened. As he moved closer to the stage, the air grew colder, and his senses sharpened. What was this? Was he dreaming?
His pulse quickened as he reached the entrance to the auditorium. The sight that greeted him was something he would never forget. On the stage stood Christine, her form bathed in soft, dim light, as she sang to a figure cloaked in shadow—a man whose presence seemed to consume the very space around him.
His heart skipped a beat. The man was unfamiliar, his features obscured in the shadows, but there was something about him, something that both terrified and fascinated Raoul. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the scene unfolding before him.
"Too long you've wandered in winter…Far from my vanishing gaze…" The words spilled from figure's lips, his voice so full of longing, so full of surrender.
Christine was lost in the music, lost in this mysterious figure who seemed to hold her captive in his embrace. Raoul stood rooted to the spot, his breath catching in his throat.
"Once again, she is his. Once again, she returns!" Raoul muttered to himself, his voice lost in the vastness of the empty theatre, unnoticed by the two lovers on stage. He watched, helpless, as their voices blended together, weaving a haunting melody that seemed to wrap itself around his heart.
Christine's voice rose, filled with emotion as she sang, "Wildly, my heart beats against you…"
The figure, his face still hidden, held her close, pressing his lips against her cheek in a tender yet possessive gesture. Raoul's heart clenched, a sickening sense of unease creeping over him. There was something about their connection that felt both beautiful and dangerous, something he couldn't fully understand, and yet he couldn't look away.
The man's voice was deep and smooth, carrying an almost seductive tone as he replied, "You admit, that your soul obey…"
Christine's voice trembled as she responded, "That my soul obeys…"
Raoul's heart beat wildly in his chest, the world around him fading as he watched the scene unfold. The room seemed to shrink, the music drawing him into its powerful spell.
"To the arms of her angel... Angel, or demon?" he whispered, his lips moving without thought. The words tumbled from him, lost in the air like the echoes of a forgotten tale.
The melody continued, and Christine's voice rang out once more, louder this time, filled with a desperate passion. "Angel of Music! I denied you!"
"You denied me!" the man responded, his voice blending with hers in perfect harmony, a chilling note of accusation in his tone.
Raoul could no longer contain himself. His hands clenched into fists as he shouted, "Still, he calls her... luring her back from the grave!" His voice echoed through the empty hall, but the two lovers on stage didn't seem to hear him.
They were lost in their own world, a world that Raoul couldn't penetrate.
"Angel of Music! My protector!" Christine cried out, her voice full of surrender, her body leaning further into the man's embrace, as if she were drawn to him by forces beyond her control. The man's voice was filled with anguish as he responded, "Do not shun me!" His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer as their voices rose together once more.
Raoul stood motionless, his mind reeling, unable to look away. The connection between them—between Christine and this man—was undeniable. It was magnetic, intoxicating, and it filled him with both longing and jealousy. He wanted to tear them apart, but he found himself powerless, drawn into their tragic love story as if he were a spectator in a play that had no ending.
"Come to your strange angel!"
"Angel or dark seducer, who are you, strange angel?" Raoul's voice faltered, his breath hitching as he watched Christine place her hands on the stranger's chest, her body arching into his in a way that made Raoul's chest tighten with something between anger and heartbreak. He wanted to shout, to tear her away from him, but his body wouldn't move. He was paralysed by the raw emotion on stage, torn between hatred for the man and an almost painful desire to understand their connection.
"I am your angel of music, Come to me, angel of music…"
The words felt like a spell, binding Raoul in place. His heart pounded in his chest as this man, Raoul assumed, this so-called "Angel of Music" pulled Christine closer, his lips capturing hers in a kiss so full of longing that it nearly broke Raoul's heart. Christine gasped, her breath escaping in a soft sigh, and then a giggle, light and almost childlike, as she surrendered herself fully to the embrace of this man who had been haunting her, body and soul.
Raoul felt a surge of nausea, the sight unbearable. His stomach churned, and yet, he could not tear his eyes away. His hand tightened around the rose, the symbol of his own love for her, but in that moment, it felt like a mockery. His body screamed at him to leave, to escape, but he couldn't.
With a growl of frustration, he turned on his heel, needing to escape the scene. He took several deep breaths, trying to steady his shaking hands, but the cold air of the theatre only deepened the chill in his heart. When he glanced back at the stage, his breath caught. A blue mist had begun to swirl around the couple, thickening with each passing moment, until it enveloped them completely. The ethereal fog seemed to draw them into its depths, and before Raoul's very eyes, the lovers vanished—gone without a trace, leaving behind only the lingering scent of their presence.
.
The Catacombs Of The Opera House, The Palais Garnier Opera House, Paris, France, September, 1894
Erik pressed Christine gently yet firmly against the cold, damp stone wall of the hidden cavern, his body shielding hers as the secret passage slid shut with a heavy grind of rock against rock. The low echo of the wall locking into place reverberated through the silence, enclosing them in a fragile cocoon of safety. Yet his sharp instincts whispered danger: the fop had seen their reunion. Erik's mind churned with the implications, each thought more damning than the last. Christine was a target now, all because of him.
He stepped back slightly, his stormy gaze darting to the sealed wall before returning to her. Christine's trembling hand reached for him, pulling him closer. Her touch was light but steady, and the delicate scent of rose water lingered around her like a grounding force in the maelstrom of his thoughts.
"Come, my angel," he murmured. "It's too cold for you to be here." Taking her hand in his, he picked up the lantern. Its flickering golden light played against the damp stone walls as they began their descent into the catacombs. The air grew cooler and more oppressive with each step, a weight pressing down on both their shoulders.
Christine followed silently, her gaze fixed on the uneven ground. Each step felt heavier than the last, her thoughts consumed by the bitter fight they had endured a week ago. The words she had hurled at Erik replayed in her mind like a haunting refrain, filling her chest with regret.
As they neared the concealed entrance to Erik's lair, she stopped abruptly, tugging on his hand to halt his steps. "I was so selfish to say those things," she whispered, her voice barely audible yet trembling with emotion. She kept her eyes down, unable to face him. Her lashes glistened with unshed tears as she stared at their intertwined fingers. "I'm so sorry, Erik."
The lantern's warm glow cast shadows over Erik's sharp features, softening them. Slowly, he set the lantern down, his movements deliberate as if steadying himself. Without a word, he turned and swept her into his arms, holding her tightly.
"Non, mon amour," he murmured, his voice a deep, soothing balm. "You were only trying to protect me."
Christine swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion. "I didn't mean what I said, Erik," she confessed, her voice trembling. "When I told you I didn't want to go to the ball with you, it wasn't because I didn't want to be with you." Her voice faltered, breaking slightly. "It was because of Raoul."
Erik's expression darkened at the mention of the Vicomte. His jaw clenched, and his hands curled into fists. "What does he have to do with this?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, like the growl of a predator poised to strike.
Christine stepped closer, placing a tentative hand on his chest. Beneath her palm, she felt the unsteady thrum of his heart, the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. "He's not the man I thought I knew," she admitted softly. "He's been… different. Angry. Possessive. He questions me about you, about where I go and what I do. And when he doesn't like my answers, he… grabs me." Her voice broke as shame and fear flickered across her face. "Not to hurt me, but enough to frighten me."
Erik's mismatched eyes blazed with fury, his breath quickening. The muscles in his jaw tightened as though he were holding back an eruption of rage. Christine gripped his cloak, her fingers trembling. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry," she continued, her words rushing out. "Or worse, do something reckless that might put you in danger. I thought I could handle it, but I can't."
"Christine," Erik said, his voice a raw mixture of heartbreak and anger. "You should have told me." He cupped her face in his hands, the leather of his gloves cool against her tear-streaked skin. "You've been suffering because of him, and I cannot—I will not—allow that."
Christine placed her hands over his, her voice trembling as she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Erik. I only wanted to keep you safe. But I don't want to hide anymore—not from you, not from anyone."
Her gaze lifted to meet his, and Erik's fierce expression softened into something infinitely tender. "What do you want, Christine?" he asked, his voice low but steady, as though daring her to voice her deepest desires.
Christine took a deep breath, her voice unwavering as she said, "I want you to take me to the masquerade ball."
Erik blinked, surprise flashing in his eyes. "Christine—"
"No," she interrupted, her tone resolute. "I'm done hiding. I don't care who sees us. At this very moment, I'm considering going to the rooftop and shouting, 'I'm in love with the Phantom of the Opera!'"
A laugh escaped Erik, low and warm. Christine flung out her arms, her cheeks flushed with conviction.
"And I'm going to spend the rest of my days by your side—as your Christine, as your Angel of Music, and as your wife." She emphasised the word wife, her voice steady and clear.
Erik's breath hitched. For a moment, he stood frozen, his emotions crashing over him like a tidal wave. Slowly, he reached out, cupping her face in his hands, his mismatched eyes locking onto hers.
"My Christine," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. She nodded, placing one hand over his. "Your Christine, my love."
"Mine?" he asked softly, a touch of vulnerability in his voice.
"Yours," she affirmed, her voice unwavering.
Erik leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing unsteady as if he were anchoring himself in the moment. Christine's delicate fingers brushed against the edge of his mask, her touch tentative but resolute. Her gaze searched his, silently asking for permission. At his almost imperceptible nod, she gently lifted the mask away, revealing his scars. Christine cupped his cheek, her eyes tracing every line and contour of his face. Her thumb brushing lightly over the ridges of his skin, and then she leaned in, pressing her lips to the marred flesh. The act was reverent, her love conveyed in the softness of her touch.
"I missed you," she whispered against his scars, her voice trembling with emotion. "Every part of you."
Erik's breath caught in his throat as he closed his eyes. Christine wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. "Je t'aime, Erik," she murmured, her voice a sacred vow before she kissed him fully, her lips meeting his in an embrace that banished the distance and heartache between them.
Erik lifted her effortlessly, holding her as though she were a piece of heaven itself. Their kiss was deep and unhurried, each moment an eternity of passion and devotion. Time seemed to stop, the outside world fading into irrelevance as they surrendered to each other.
"Tu m'as tellement manqué, mon bel ange," he whispered against her lips, his voice raw with love and longing.
.
Translations:
Je t'aime = I love you
Tu m'as tellement manqué mon bel ange = I've missed you so much my beautiful angel
Songs:
Wandering Child/Bravo, Bravo: Andrew Lloyd Webber
.
xoxo
.