Author's Note:

First, I own absolutely nothing save a cd from the Original London Recording. Aside from that Erik, Christine, and the whole phantom story is not mine and I am not making any profits from this.

Second: This is primarily a stage ALW verse with some Leroux, Kay, and movie thrown in there for the hell of it. Absolutely no Raoul bashing in this one, I actually like the guy, but primarily E/C with R/C moments.

Third: I need to thank two very important people. Schmooie, for encouraging me to actually do this and my beta who's patient and knowledgeable and just plain rocks my socks.

Anyway…

Chapter #1
The Choice

It is always your next move.
Napoleon Hill

"…Christine, that's all I ask of you…"

The last note died in the rafters of the theatre, but Erik's plea lay in the air.

No one, save the managers and the Vicomte, knew the Script was abandoned a good twenty minutes ago. Nor did they care their Don Juan of the first three acts had vanished off the stage. All the patrons cared about was the choice that lay before Aminta. Would she forsake her mysterious Don Juan to keep her innocence, or would she succumb to her lover's dark world of passion and fire?

Raoul okayed to the soldier as his elbow. He nodded his understanding and retrieved the weapon from the folds of his cloak. Across the theatre, the managers took note and alerted their soldier and readied themselves for a bloody finish. This had to end now or that bastard would never let her go.

Do something, Raoul implored her, Slap his face! Rip off the damn mask!

The gunmen raised the barrel and aimed.

But Christine saw none of this. Her eyes were fixed on the man in front of her. No longer an angel, a phantom, or her tutor, but a broken man asking her to save him.

Christine opened her mouth and the audience leaned in anticipation. No doubt she meant to give her answer with the most soul-shattering song the world ever heard. Nothing less then absolute and heartfelt perfection would do for the finale of this opera.

But she shut it just as quickly. This was not an opera after all. This was not the conclusion to the drama of Don Juan and Aminta, but another obstacle in the relationship of Christine and the enigmatic Erik. She could not entirely understand what he really asked of her, but she knew she stood on the cusp of something far greater then herself. One way or another, she would destroy someone, herself, Raoul, or this mystery before her.

The bare side of his face remained stoic and unmoving, like its lifeless counterpart. His eyes, however, moved from her, to the floor, to a nameless spot behind her. And when they once again settled on her, they seemed to plead with her to end this torment.

She raised her had to his face and touched the ghostly white mask. If she were honest with herself, she would admit this was the sole reason for her fear of him. The pale kidskin hid his greatest physical shame, but it also masked the great and terrible beauty of his soul. Without it, his ghostly aura melted and as a man, he frightened her far more then he ever did as the phantom.

Yet she already knew her choice.

So why delay what she already knew would happen?

Christine brought his forehead down to her own and for a moment she saw panic flash across his gold eyes. She felt him stiffened under her hands and refused to move for fear of something he could not place. He began to relax as her purpose appeared to be a need for physical contact and nothing more. Closing his eyes, he allowed her control as she closed the final distance between them.

For awhile neither moved as their souls raged; her searching for courage to make her choice and him drinking in her close proximity for what he believed was the last time. When she refused, for he did not doubt she would with her Vicomte watching over her, he knew he would let her go. Aminta's profession of undying love would be a mockery of his own dreams. But for a moment, he could pretend the words came from her soul and not penned by him in the recesses of his madness. For the last time, their voices would blend in perfect harmony and then he would live off the memory for the rest of his natural days.

Raoul watched as the scene played out be fore him, rather as nothing played out before him. His fiancée clung to the madman like a lifeline and he could not tell if she held him in a last embrace, or one promised of many other's to come. A voice he had ignore for the last year raged in his mind, begging him to listen, but he pushed it aside and focused on the task at hand.

The gendarme's barrel was trained on Don Juan's head. "Give the word, sir."

The click of the gun and low voice of Raoul reminded Erik of their audience, who all sat on the edges of their seats waiting for the glorious conclusion.

Fools, he thought, you'll never know true glory.

Erik could see the Vicomte up in his box and the gunmen watching him intently. The young boy thought to punish his crimes by ending his life. But what he could not see was that a life without Christine was not worth living. Without here, the music would simply cease and he would have nothing ahead of him but an endless stretch of silence.

He may win Christine in the end, but Erik would never give him the satisfaction of his death. He turned back to Christine and saw that she had not moved yet seemed more lost then before.

"Christine," he beseeched, "please… make your choice."

No more performances, the games had truly ended.

She too remembered they were not alone with hundreds of eyes trained on them. The patrons, all waiting for a conclusion they paid handsomely for, the cast members in the wings, and the gendarmes aimed to kill.

The gendarmes!!

Raoul gazed down at her from his box as the soldier waited for his signal. Even with a hand raised to end a life, Raoul looked so warm and safe. She could see what he would gain from him; wealth, happiness, and security. But she could also see what she would loose. And what she would loose stared intently at her from behind pale kidskin.

Forgive me, she thought, forgive me for everything…

With a final sigh, she turned back to her phantom and lowered her head.

The silence of the auditorium stretched and settled in the base of her stomach like lead. His eyes did not change even as understanding spread through his person.

"Are you sure?" he asked below everyone's hearing.

She nodded.

"So be it."

There was no longer need for the theatrics he planned and found himself almost sad at their loss. A pity, the chandelier would've been quite spectacular. But he had his answer, and Christine it seemed, the dramatics no longer mattered.

Yet what did he feel now? Anger? Love? Frustration, perhaps? He prepared for weeks for this moment, writing and rewriting his plea with more care then the rest of his beloved Opera. His lair bore evidence of his dilemma as it was littered with crumpled scores he tossed aside for lack of beauty. No words could capture the depth of his torment for this girl, so in the end, he settled on the words of the Vicomte. He bore no affection for the boy but he found his honest plea for the love of another more heartfelt then anything born of his own mind.

Now, he found his brilliant mind failed him.

Escape, his mind commanded. There will be nothing if you wait for the bullets!

He gathered her close and tried to ignore the exquisite feel of her body. The rapier he drew from his belt and Christine gasped in fear.

"Down once more, my dear," he snarled. "This is the choice."

The patrons all awoke from their hypnotic trance as Don Juan drew he sword.

The rope snapped like rubber as bridge gave out underneath them.

They did not hear the audience cries as they fell into darkness. Nor the shouts of Raoul over the gunshots. All they heard as Erik led her through the labyrinth was their own heated breathing and the silence of her choice.