Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

Summary: She dreamt in red. The heavy scarlet colour no less condemning by its own nature possessed her, haunting her until all reason evaded her—the only solace found within one already dead as his skeletal hand clasped hers in the growing darkness.

Author's Note: Just a little note. This story does have mention of adult themes in it. However, it is nothing too graphic or vulgar, seeing as I cannot bring myself to write anything as such. This story, along with everything in it, is nothing too bad, I promise. I just wanted to notify everyone before reading it.

Idle Recollections on a Red Death

Paris, France

December 1881

'And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.' — Edgar Allen Poe, The Masque of the Red Death

…

She dreamt of death. With its crimson waves of indelicate ardour, it possessed her, pooled around her, and enveloped her within its darkening cloak of obscurity. The depth which drew her into its centre of madness compelled her to fall away and accept what it offered her as the lulling, damning voice called to her once more…

Her weary eyes closed as the inevitable pull of the Angel's voice coerced her into its hypnotic song of desire. The divine notes and angelic sound burned within her, possessing her with the earth-shattering call of one cast down from the heavenly spheres. In the darkness of her dreams it called to her, beckoning her with its unending plight.

And it was this plea she could not disregard as she succumbed to it, arresting her soul to the nameless visage that beseeched her with its poisoning existence. Skeletal hands sought hers, embracing them within a prison of rotting flesh. The cloak that braced her against its master's maladjusted form only furthered her growing dismay. For within its velvety confines she felt the slight yearning to give in to its suffocating enclosure. The man—corpse—had now joined her to him, consummating their unholy union by the mere touch of his hand.

Christine Daaé, former prima donna of the Opéra Garnier, cried out into the starless night.

Tears that were stained with invisible droplets of blood cascaded down her wan cheeks, her frail form trembling within the darkness. The idle toll of her deathlike dreams was more frequent now, adequate in the dire notion of haunting her with an unending fear of irresolution.

And as the black hours of the night ensued, she felt only the deafening calm of her truest dread come to life in a horrid, dismal setting of her nightmare's crude design.

Would she ever be free of him: the damning scarlet apparition that was bathed in the blood of others? In her heart, she knew that she would never be free, for such liberation came at a price. Her very soul would be forfeited for the freedom she desired, yet knew to be only a fabrication. No, it was best to reside in a state of numbed transition, amongst the souls of those who were trapped in an eternal limbo.

Christine shuddered as an ocean of dead faces mocked her, their impassive expressions equal in their unjust condemnations of her fateful dilemma. Only a thin grey hand clasped her resolute arm in cold reassurance, pursuing her, protecting her within its deadened hold.

She glanced at the emaciated appendage, knowing all too well that her fears were temporarily abated as the sea of the dead parted, fading out of the darkness and decay within the silent chamber, and leaving the living to their own devices. Christine gently sighed as she leaned against the comforting figure of her husband.

A cold hand moved against her dark hair and smoothed away the errant damp tendrils from her face with the tender grace of a concerned lover. Golden eyes considered her for a moment, until the foreboding silence was shattered by his mellifluous voice. "Christine," he quietly murmured into the night. "My beautiful Christine is troubled, is she not?"

His words compelled her to answer. She nodded, the solemn dejection revealed within her dry tears. "Yes," she whispered faintly, "it was another nightmare."

Possessive fingers tightened around her arms. "Was he in it, my angel? Did the darkness try to possess you with its twisted intentions? Tell me, Christine," he quietly urged, his subtle words compelling her to obey.

Christine stared at her husband; his wondrous eyes illuminated within the shadows of their bedchamber. How she loved his eyes so. The glowing amber spheres captured within the candlelight was singular, provocative in their fluidity to seduce her. His were eyes of a god, cloaked in the darkness and divine mystery that completed him.

She smiled at this, and without hesitation spoke: "Yes, my love. He and I moved to the dance of the dead as others gazed upon us; the same, distorted faces appalled by the very sight of us."

A stroke of brilliant anger burned within his eyes at his bride's words. "Did he touch you?" he asked, his hands moving away from her arms to the alabaster column of her throat, and then falling to its base to trace the delicate collar bone subtly hidden underneath her pale flesh.

A torn gasp escaped her as the skeletal digits worked their arcane magic upon her. "Yes," she murmured, feeling the slight pull of her thin chemise give way. "Yes, he did."

An inaudible growl reverberated within his chest as the heady throes of possessive jealousy forced him to act in the animalistic nature he was instilled with. His jagged teeth left imperfect marks upon her ivory shoulder as his twisted lips caused his beloved to sigh at his devious ministrations. As no man, living or dead, would ever dare touch his wife. Not even a dream could possess her mind—her very soul—like he could. His Christine belonged to him—forever and a day.

"Christine…" he grated out, the untamed rage churning within his dark soul. He grasped her hands, binding them behind her back. She looked up at him, her eyes a dark and impenetrable shade of azure, and his feral gaze was inevitably quenched within their icy depths, the silent death under the tremulous waves enforcing his husbandly right upon her. She would be his tonight.

And so he removed another barrier between them, delicate in his movements, skilful in the art of undressing her. He stared upon the beauty before him, his eyes burning with the passion of a thousand hellish fires. A confident hand then moved to his beloved as he caressed the base of her throat, his thin fingers sliding away from the hallowed prison of her angelic voice to the heart that beat only for him. She loved him, and not the other.

He inwardly cursed the other's name, damning it to an eternity in the frigid wastelands of despair. The rival found within it was combined with the chilling awe of one praised by the gods, for the boy who once fought for her affections was cruelly eclipsed by this unnamed nemesis. The de Chagny was a minor, trivial concern now. He smirked at his victory. The poor fool was still lamenting over the loss of one he held dear, as they were eternally separated by a cruel twist of fate. No one could find the remains of his intended, for no one knew where to look.

It was a shame, really, he thought as he placed a loving hand upon his bride's shoulder. No man should be denied the joys and pleasures of the flesh. Especially on one's wedding night. The concrete loss of it was too much for him to consider. But perhaps the young nobleman would replace his missing bride and substitute another to wear the priceless trinket found in the gloom-filled depths of the grand Paris Opéra.

He disregarded this; however, finding the subject of the new Comte de Chagny unimportant as his bride placed her hands against his head, her tiny fingers considering the remnants of his thinning hair. He could have died in her arms then. The childlike acceptance of his ghastly appearance did not fail him in the absolute truth of her words: his face did not matter, not anymore. And it was with this understanding that he believed she could become used to it, as one would in time. She would see him as a normal man, without a mask to cower behind.

"Oh, Christine…" he sighed, his heart constricting within his chest. "You must love me to consider my flaws without disgust." His golden eyes gleamed in unparalleled wonder. "You can touch you poor, unhappy Erik and not die with the knowledge that you love one who is dead to the world." He paused briefly, his hands stilled against her chest. "You make your Erik happy, Christine. You make him love and adore you with the devotion of ten thousand husbands."

"Erik," she murmured quietly, her hand, escaping from his weakening hold, rising, falling against the ridges of his distorted flesh. "I realised, long ago, that I could not live without the Angel my father often spoke of." Her fingers moved against the pain-ridden edges of his face, tracing the idle strands of self-inflicted pain upon each weathered crease. A tear fell from the unseen corner of her eye, and she whispered, "I cried for you until no more tears came. In my heart, my love is only for you, and no one else. For how can I live without my Angel of Music?" She smiled without restraint, her dulcet voice compelling him to believe her.

"You are beautiful to me, my husband." An appreciative tear fell from an azure eye. "You pulled me away from the light, and into the darkness of your world. Your deceptions were a blessing to me, not a curse."

The idle movements of his fingers halted at her words. "Then you love Erik—completely? You love him without fear, with the unconditional affection between two united? You love your Erik so?" he questioned, a twisted smile reflecting hers.

She nodded without hesitation. "Yes, Erik. I do. And I will love you until the end of my days—even after." She looked down, sheepishly. "I am yours in every way."

His eyes widened, those yellow orbs reflecting a fragile trust within their hollow sockets. "Every way," he muttered, almost inaudibly. "Every way…" The words echoed within his torn mind as the calming sigh of his beloved ensured his right to her. Christine wanted this, wanted him. And he knew he could not deny her, even if he was inexperienced in the ability to love one physically. However, he refused to disappoint her.

And thus, his hands moved, seemingly of their own accord, as they explored every part of her. His fingers traced the thin outline of her ribs, counting each one with the deftness of the memory imbedded within them. Dear God, how he adored her…

He lost his mind then, giving in to the primal urge of being denied this for half a lifetime. His motions were like a violent storm at sea; the turbulent splendour of each passing stroke inflicted upon the vessel of his bride made him complete in that final bout against an internal tempest.

"Oh, Erik," she cried against him, the pain of release threatening to fall away from her amidst a sea of elation.

With the death's head suspended above her, Christine basked in the gentleness of her husband's beautiful face. The mask had fallen away hours ago, when she had come to him in the dismal prospect of returning him to the grave, only to find another in place of him.

Erik had revealed himself then, proving to her that death could not separate them. The life he willingly promised not to destroy had been annulled in that singular moment when her hand sought his, clasping it in the wordless assurance that she would not abandon him this time. She would be his bride this night, and until the final stroke of time's unending hold on eternity.

No thoughts of her former intended tormented her mind. Raoul de Chagny, the boy turned man within a fatal instant, had nothing but the hollow promises of a child's idyllic fantasy. Little Lotte and her beloved childhood hero were only playing the parts that had been written by two foolish children, not the conflicted and tragic people they were now.

Erik had been the one to shatter that dream. With his cold—and perhaps, brutal—assertions, he had enabled her to break away from a lifetime of false imaginings and live in the security of the one whom truly loved her. As he no longer saw her as an object to possess, but as one who equalled him in every way imaginable. Nothing could ever dare to part them, not even Fate with her cold indifference could tear away a thread bound by the silver cords of destiny.

For it was only whilst reading the bold heading in the L'Epoque did she begin to understand her one fatal error. The marvellous, yet harsh, realization was shattering. As the idea of Erik's death twisted a dulled knife into her heart. Even the loss of her father could never compare to losing Erik. And as such, the true loss she felt compelled her to truly appreciate what it was to love.

In truth, she did not love Erik—not at first. The pity and compassion derived from his tragedy only furthered the transition between fear and love, as the true adoration for this man descended from the release of their brief union. It was only when he freed her that he truly made her his bride.

Christine's fragile heart shattered that night when Raoul led her away from the tomb of her Angel and into the world above. She had looked upon him then, as the light of the pale moon cast a silver strand of its lunar radiance upon his golden head. The bewildered expression upon his face revealed signs of age that went far beyond his years.

He seemed old to her, like a man beaten and broken by the wearing touch of time. His skin was rough to her now, lacking the feel of a gentleman's chivalrous touch. And no longer could she find the boy within the man he had become. He was dead to her, like the man she had abandoned in the prison below, and also the body of the victim who had graced the siren with its presence…

The news of the former Comte de Chagny's death left a dismal and painful reminder that the world had been plunged into utter chaos. Raoul had taken his brother's abrupt demise with a numb acceptance that bordered upon the edge of regret; his duty to his sisters and remaining family the only assurance left after his life had collapsed before him. He could no longer see Christine, who, remained by his side during that trying time, her loving, concerned expression always mirroring an almost sisterly affection.

The many hours of holding his hand while he cried only furthered her despair. The brilliant man he once was had deserted him, leaving an empty, lifeless shell of a being beyond feeling. The emotions of love and compassion dissipated into a mindless wasteland of depression as the misery of the world consumed him.

He no longer spoke or moved, instead remained, seated by the window that looked out to a world rendered in a frigid desert of apathy, the winter within his heart reflecting the icy storm that raged from without.

The lifeless entity that possessed her beloved dissolved the last fragment of life, his idle awareness of her presence dwindling with each passing moment. There was nothing that could release him from this state of sorrow as the dementia waxed within his broken mind, not even the comforting words of Mamma Valérius could placate him.

Two weeks had passed without fault, and the madness finally ceased, bringing the young de Chagny out of his suspended state of dissolution. Christine was overjoyed—relieved that the listless cloud of dejection had departed, and bringing forth the boy—man—she knew and loved. Her beloved friend and playmate had returned to her…

…

"Oh, Christine," he had said to her, tears of sadness within his eyes. "You have been with me all of this time?"

"Yes, I have," she replied, her tears reflecting his own. She clasped his hand, her gloved fingers tightening around his. "Oh, Raoul, I was frightened for you. I thought you had left me." She looked down, wholly ashamed of her frail conviction of faith.

A gentle hand held her chin, tilting it and causing her to face him. "I would never leave you, Christine. You know that I could never—not after finding you again." He shook his head, the damp golden locks swaying against his bronzed face. "You saved me, Christine; you returned me to the light. Do not ever doubt yourself so."

She nodded, and a wavering smile breached her pale lips. "Oh, Raoul," she cried, her tiny arms embracing him, as the tears freely fell.

Raoul returned the tender embrace with the apt affection of a besotted lover. Christine melded against him, as if becoming one with him. And yet, he felt a slight feeling of unease emit from her trembling form. The mixture of both concern and apprehension coursed madly through her veins. Like an intoxicating poison, it tainted her with uncertainty—anarchy unrivalled by even the greatest of confidences: herself.

There was something that stirred in the night, its unspoken intent a forewarning of what was to come. And it had. With a dire vengeance, it had. For within the ink-stained lines of L'Époque laid the strange axiom that condemned his newfound desire to live:

Erik is dead.

Dear God, how he regretted looking upon those damning words. The phrase, though curious in its abstract denotation, tormented him, and he secretly knew that it would shatter Christine when she realised that her once-glorious Angel had died.

He realised he could not secrete the news from her, for she would discover it—eventually. It would be best if she knew upon the moment of his death, instead of learning of it only years after its publication. He could not do that to Christine, just as he could not deny her promise to her Angel

Erik.

That name would always haunt him. The dreams that came within the night would also contain the misery and utter terror he felt while in the torturous chamber of mirrors. Christine's cries of despair would always be heard in the background as he tried to escape an inescapable prison of glass and metal.

But a thousand prisons could never compare to the pain and anguish brought on by the unending cruelty of others, Raoul thought bitterly. No, he could not condemn Erik for the crimes committed against so many, even if the man did, in fact, murder his own brother. He could not fault him for the insanity that clouded his mind. He had been on the edge of that blissful, beautiful madness himself.

And he knew that Erik's only moments of clarity were when Christine remained in his presence. The monster doted upon his bride as he attended to his nemesis and the daroga; his ungloved hands twisted with the pain of waiting for his beloved's decision. And no man could be more pleased than he that night. Erik had attained the only thing he desired most: Christine's acceptance.

And it was with this sad, agonizing knowledge that Raoul had to relinquish the paper to Christine, the inevitable tears she cried upon his jacket only proved what he knew already: she loved Erik, and not him. The evidence within her tear-stained eyes glistened as her unspoken torment echoed within the silent study.

Raoul dried her tears with a calloused hand. "Do not cry so, Christine," he murmured, his words broken by utter woe. "He loved you; you know this." His hands comforted her as he continued. "And it seems that he wants you to keep your word to him."

He looked down and sighed. "You must go to him, Christine. I cannot keep you here for ever, not even if I wish for it to be so." His eyes returned to hers, pained remorse filled within them. "Go to him, Christine. Go without guilt, and accept whatever fate becomes of you." He placed a chaste kiss upon her forehead.

"I will leave you to do this on your own. As for this…" His hands fell to the sapphire engagement ring he had given her upon their arrival at his estate. "I will know when I come to the well. Do not be sorry for what feelings arise upon seeing him. Just accept it, and never regret your choice. Promise me."

She looked at him with tears in her eyes, the feeling of sudden loss overcoming her with brilliant shame of his inauspicious foresight. He knew what was in her heart; saw the treachery that festered from within. And with this one, damning truth, she nodded, complying with his will. "Yes," she muttered dejectedly. "I promise, Raoul. I will not regret my decision."

He smiled then, his hands bracing her arms. "You have nothing to fear; I will look after your beloved mamma while you are gone." His smile did not lessen when he added, "I shall send for my coach. You should be within the city in a matter of hours." He stilled her impending objection, silencing her with a resolute hand. "You shall do this, Christine. I will only accompany you to the Rue Scribe. From there, you shall go the rest of the way on your own. You must do this for yourself and him."

"Raoul…" she pleaded, praying that he would surrender to her appeal. "Please. I cannot do this. Please, do not leave me to do this alone…"

Her pleas pained his heart. But he could not give in to her, not this time. "I will always be there for you. But it is you whom he desires, not the one who took you from him. Christine, this you must do. There is no other choice." He bowed his head in silent regret. "And there is no other way…"

…

Christine set aside the painful memory of his words. The choice made was what he had expected: she had left the sapphire engagement ring by the well, ultimately revealing the pain and adoration of one she harboured from within. It was what he wanted—no regrets. She had promised him…and Erik.

Erik.

Looking at her beloved husband of a few hours only conveyed the love she denied herself for so long. It was the same, turbulent, all-sacrificing love found within his golden eyes. He needed her—more than anyone else ever could. And ironically, she needed him as well.

She recalled how she stumbled away from the body that lay so slovenly against the well, its form mouldering under the tattered rags that covered it—undoubtedly another victim that the siren had claimed in the lake's watery depths—like a death shroud. The makeshift mask that concealed only a portion of the corpse's face had revealed the haste in placing it there, leaving her as prey to the awaiting figure within the shadows…

…

And much like a spider that awaited its oblivious quarry, the figure revealed itself, its regal gait broken by the anticipation of waiting. She gasped at the sight as the all-too-familiar bone-white mask gleamed ominously within the dim light.

Erik had fallen to his knees before her, his corpselike hands ungloved, pale and wavering within the shadows. He moved a fraction of an inch, his fingers tracing the floral designs on the hem of her ivory dress. "Christine…" he had whispered, the name coming out as a plea. "You have kept your word; you have returned to me!" Resplendent tears glistened within his golden eyes. "You have come back to Erik…"

And she had. No mattered what her childish heart cried, she had. For how could she deny this man—who idolised the very hem of her skirt—anything? And deep within herself, she knew that she could not refuse him a second time, not after the pains he had gone through to see her once again.

"Yes, I have returned, Erik," she told him, and then kneeled to embrace him. She ignored the faint smell of decay that permeated his fine evening clothes and placed her head against his chest, vaguely hearing the slow steady beat of his great heart resonate its unspoken delight. "I have come back to you…"

The cold porcelain of his mask graced against her dark curls, wholly ignorant of their silken caress. His hands cradled the small of her back as his arms tightened around her. "Then you will not…" He hesitated, in only briefly before continuing. "You will not return to the boy?" he said at last, a minute sense of hope subtly laced within his voice.

She faintly smiled. "No, I will not return to him. He knows that I will not."

"How do you know?" he asked, uncertainty reflecting within his questioning eyes.

Christine looked at him; the unspoken words within her gaze reflected the hesitance within his. "Because he let me go, Erik." She removed the engagement ring from her finger and handed it to him. "We are no longer bound to one another. This ring will remain at this well as a testament to my answer." She urged him to release it, and he quietly obeyed. The ring fell against the dirty cobblestones, a resounding clink of the precious stone and metal echoing within the harsh silence.

Seeing this, Christine silently nodded, and a great weight upon her heart lifted. It was done. The nightmare, along with the days filled with abject trepidation, was over. Only now did she truly begin to understand that. She smiled in spite of her folly, however, and gracefully took one of his hands into hers. She stared at it, noticing the faint indigo veins under the yellowed skin, the signs of age evident upon it.

"Christine…" he said into the darkness, his masked expression conveying nothing but the bland façade it was moulded in. "You are here, with me," he said, slight disbelief resonating within his words.

She smiled at him. "Yes, I am here, Erik. I will always be here."

And with these beautifully condemning words she felt him shift under her, his heart echoing the joy and triumph of a battle long fought against Fate itself. Tears of happiness, not sorrow, streamed under the mask and fell from their threshold onto the sodden cobblestones. A stifled cry fell away from him when he placed her at arm's length.

"You have made your Erik so happy, Christine." His eyes betrayed his voice's elation with regret. "But I cannot have you living with me as nothing less than a wife. We must be married." He took her hands in his. "I will not ruin you, my angel. I cannot taint you or hurt you. You will be honoured and welcomed into my home, as a proper bride should be."

Her eyes darkened in confusion. "But I thought—"

"No. I released you from our vows. You have not been my wife for three weeks, Christine. We are not married—not legally." He glanced at the nameless corpse whose lifeless finger wore the plain gold ring. It would not be of good fortune to remove the ring and place it upon her finger, he thought. No, he would leave it to the dead as gratitude for returning his Christine. He turned to her once more, retrieving something from his cloak.

Christine gasped as he removed another ring from the cloak's voluminous folds. It was a band, much like the other, except for one minute detail. "It has our names engraved on it," he said, an emaciated finger pointing to ring's inner circle:

Erik and Christine: Forever and a Day.

"It is beautiful, Erik," she found herself say, and a gentle cry escaped her as he placed it upon her awaiting finger.

He said nothing as his head inclined, gracing his porcelain forehead against hers. "Now we are one, Christine. And nothing can ever take you from me again." His hands moved against her face, the dead fingers tracing the planes and delicate contours of flesh.

Christine nodded. "We are one," she repeated in a reverent whisper, her hand moving to the edge of his mask. She noticed his silent consent to her unspoken plea, and without a sign of resignation, she removed the damning obstruction, and thus revealed the face of the man she loved.

"You are so beautiful to me," she whispered, "I do not wish for you to hide yourself from me anymore. I want to see past the lies and deceit, Erik; I want to see the man I love, not the mask that shields him from me."

Erik stared at her, his wretched face bared in all of its hideous glory. The weathered lips shifted into a wavering smile, and his imperfect teeth gleamed in the pale lamplight. But despite the horrid image his death's head represented, he returned her smile. "Then Erik shall no longer wear the mask, if it will please his Christine."

"It would please his Christine greatly," she murmured, setting the mask aside. "Take me home, Erik."

…

And so Erik had, as he led her to his realm of eternal night, blissfully forsaking the light and the world above. They traversed the winding stairs that led to the depths of the underworld and crossed the river Styx to the dark kingdom where music held dominion over all…

Christine glanced at her husband, noticing his hesitance in touching the wrinkled folds of her ivory chemise. Her wedding gown had been cast aside long ago, as had everything else, including the pins that stayed her hair. The unruly strands were unbound now, winding around her pale shoulders like the idle branches of trees touched by the remorseless hand of winter.

She felt him move then, a mild hesitation evoked from within. So brave was he to touch her, to ask her to share his bed, like a true bride should. And yet, his doubts were beginning to reflect in his actions. Such a paradox was he. At first possessive in his right to claim her, and then frightened to even touch her. It was time he cast aside his own reservations, just as she had the moment she consented to be his wife.

"Beautiful," she whispered, caressing the cold, uneven flesh of his face. His eyes closed at her loving touch, and he submitted to her will. "Erik, I love you. And I said that I am yours in every way. Do not be afraid to touch me—not now," she pleaded.

His hands stopped their movements and his timid smile wavered. "Oh, Christine…" he cried, his dead mouth uttering words of reverence. "My beautiful Christine loves her Angel," he murmured quietly in a dazed mantra. "My beautiful Christine loves her Erik." And with this, his hands, the singular weapon of bestowing both life and death, stripped away the last barrier between them.

Christine lay open before him, naked in the truth that she was on the verge of losing herself to him—completely. Heaven could be found within the dark catacombs of Hell that night as the desire, long since held in reserved abstinence, coursed madly through her veins. Persephone had finally awakened to Hades' gentle touch.

And oh, God, how she loved him. How she had denied herself this one, undeniable truth she did not know. The many days of sobriety she had instilled upon herself only furthered the inner disgust of hurting him. True, he had deceived her by embellishing himself as the actual Angel of Music. But her betrayal on the rooftop of the Opéra was far more treacherous, if not influential in itself to divide them forever. For there was no doubt in her mind that he heard her that night, the stifled cry from behind the statue of Apollo only confirmed the growing suspicion that he had indeed heard every word escape her traitorous tongue.

And yet, he had forgiven her—everything. He revered her as a goddess, her flawless demeanour captivating him by a single, curious glance. Even as she breathed she felt the awe and adoration transcend and meld his misshapen form into a statue of beautified perfection. He was a god unto her, reversed in the notion that she was the lowly mortal and he the divine.

She nearly wept as she felt his decaying touch upon her flesh. She did not shudder or recoil from it, but welcomed it freely. The faint traces of his crooked mouth captured the side of her throat in a gentle caress. She sighed as his fingers fell away from her chest, lower to the base of her abdomen. The thin digits stilled there, tentative in their quest to proceed. She could only cry his name, her wavering smile a subtle plea for him to continue, which compelled him to obey without question.

"Christine…" he cried in a reverent whisper, his broken teeth gracing against an ivory shoulder.

"Yes, Erik?" she whispered quietly, a delirious sigh escaping her unfettered words.

He stared at her, his blinding gaze descending upon her with palpable scrutiny. He remained silent for a moment as he studied her in the conceptual manner of one asking questions of the stars. To ask of her this one, damning thing would alter their relationship forever. Could he endure the pain if she denied him, his mind silently questioned.

But the love within her eyes cast aside his innate doubts, as if assuring him that he would not be denied by her. And with this, he finally spoke: "Christine, you realise what will come of our union, that a loving husband has certain rights…to his bride…"

He looked down, hesitant to continue. Only when Christine turned his face toward hers did he have the courage to proceed. "I know this because I have heard other husbands and wives speak of it. I know it is so, even though I have been without a wife until now." His golden eyes questioned her, those yellow irises smouldering with fear of pain and rejection. "Would you deny me now, Christine? Could you deny your Erik?"

The question hung within the balance between them, and Christine considered the dire cost of her words. If she denied him this, then it would forever ruin the fragile bond they had forged. But if she submitted and surrendered herself to him, she would have his love forever. How could she reject him when she desired the same, ultimate consummation of their souls?

"No," she murmured quietly, "I could not deny you something that I, too, desire, Erik. I want to be your wife in every way, as I have said." Her fingers moved over the gaping hole where his nose should have been, then fell to his mouth, as they lightly caressed those eroded lips. "I want this, Erik. I want you," she said, drawing his face to hers. She smiled at him, wickedly, divinely, and then kissed his torn lips…and thus, sealed her fate.

She had kissed the Red Death, and she did not die.

She could not.

For death was absent from the living shadows that now encompassed her. She smiled at the irony of her dilemma, where she remained a living bride in the arms of her beloved Angel of Music.

A smile came to those blessed lips at the knowledge of it, her soul contented at last. And so she fell against the satin sheets, which were bathed in the deepest of all crimson, her dark hair a perfect contrast to the divine shade of unspoken passion. A thousand frightening, tantalising sensations raged within her as she felt all barriers between them fall away. The skeletal, godlike frame of his being draped hers, dominating her with one distinct purpose: she would be his and only his after this night; and nothing, by word or deed, could part her from him—ever.

His eyes gleamed within their fathomless sockets, bringing forth a deeper, almost symbolic meaning that transcended above all proclamations of love and desire. Even Raoul could not subdue the depth and power that became Erik, for no man could ever express the profundity of his love. As no man could feel the way Erik felt for her. And like a fire that faded out of existence, the inferno within Erik's eyes smouldered, searing and burning her with his ardent declaration of love.

Erik loved her, and her soul ached with the knowledge of it.

Her fingers twisted into the remnants of his thinning black hair, a cry of utter joy escaping her. She felt him breathe against her, the scent of one long dead unheeded by the passion that consumed them both. She had been wrong to tell Raoul that she could not return to the ground with a corpse that loved her. The silence and utter release found within the grave preceded all thoughts of returning to the light. Death and dreams were far better than life and reality, she realized as she felt his mouth form words against her chest.

"Christine," Erik muttered lowly, his voice intoxicated with a dizzying euphoria that devoured him. "My bride, my beautiful wife," he sighed against her, "this will hurt. Forgive your Erik for the pain he gives you. Please, forgive him."

"I forgive you," she whispered into his ear, preparing herself for the inevitable joining of their souls.

And then she felt pain, as she cried out into the silent darkness. The deep, gratifying sensation of release then followed as their cries melded within each other, heightening into a brilliant crescendo that echoed into a soundless eternity.

Their hands joined in an unbreakable union, their souls becoming one as the last, fatal throes of self-hatred and loathing were cast aside, the masks of deception falling away at last.

Christine lay against Erik, her breathing unsteady. Her eyes, though filled with tears, revealed only love for him. And she gave in to his calming assurance as a cold hand caressed her cheek, the emaciated fingers tracing the contours of her face. She felt precious to him, delicate. For the madness that consumed him had passed, leaving only Erik in its destructive wake.

She felt him grace the ruined flesh of his lips against her forehead. "You must rest now, Christine," his soothing voice whispered. "I will guard you against the nightmares and the darkness you fear. The creature that spawned the worry in your lovely mind will no longer trouble you. On this, you have the word of Erik."

"I know," she faintly murmured, draping the satin sheets around them. "You will always love and protect me." Her hand moved to his, clasping it in the security that she would no longer dream alone. "Erik, I love you…" she whispered, and then fell into a dreamless sleep that Hypnos himself graciously granted.

"And you know of my love for you, Christine…" he said after a long moment, knowing that she somehow heard him through the opaque darkness of her deathlike slumber. He watched his beloved, his yellow eyes considering the slow rise and fall of her chest. With his free hand, he smoothed away an errant curl from her delicate forehead. She was so beautiful, so precious, and he vowed never to allow another to destroy their happiness, for she did not die from his touch. He had made sure of it this night.

And as he turned his sight away from his wife, his eyes moved from beyond the narrow confines of their shared bed, noticing the solitary manner of a death's head mirroring his thoughts. The Red Death stared vacantly at the room's occupants, its sightless gaze seeing all, and yet nothing, the wondrous folds of its cloak a perfect shade of crimson against the ebony floor.

Erik returned the skull's foolish grin, and then looked upon his wife once more. She looked so delightfully exquisite in their coffin, the satin sheets covering her like a river of blood. His living bride, he thought absently. And now he would join her in the sleep of the dead, waking only to find her beautiful and alive in his arms come the dawn.

He closed the coffin's dark lid then, sealing them together for eternity; the silent, unspoken remnants of their passion falling deftly into the fading night as the grinning skull of the Red Death stared, its lifeless gaze keeping silent vigil over the sleeping couple.

Author's Note: I am so going to be flamed for this. I just know it. However, I realise that this may be a bit strange and somewhat different approach to a story, especially a oneshot. The flow of this may very well be horribly out of alignment and a bit annoying to grasp, but it is different, which I was going for. Or actually, what my mind with its twisted, winding means of delight was going for. I just love how it shifts from present to past and so on. It is rather strange to see part of the ending at the beginning. Also, I almost feel ashamed of writing this dark little romance/dirty story with a very psychotic Erik speaking in third person. I find that it perhaps came off to be rather trite and dull, as well. And that coffin…

And just a side note, the nightmare did not concern Raoul, as it may have been made out to sound like, but of the Red Death. Everyone sees what it was that actually caused Christine's nightmare and I found it to be a bit ironic that Erik should hate one of his own incarnations. Nevertheless, I daresay that Erik's costume would most likely frighten anyone, especially if it's gawking at you from across the room…

Also, the dark and overall morbidity of this story is something I rarely do. Honest. Besides, I wanted something of a short and semi-plausible interlude between Erik and Christine, even if both were horribly out-of-character and there was no developed plot. I truly despise stories where Christine just realises her mistake and returns to Erik, or in turn, where Erik is considered to be normal and without problems. There needs to be an actual reason for their actions.

And so that is why Raoul was truly the only one who saw and understood Christine's feelings as he comes out of his own depression. He is also the one who spurs her return to Erik once he subtly releases her from their engagement. In a way, I would think that Raoul wanted her happiness above his, and in a moment of clarity, let her go. Otherwise, I believe Christine would have stayed with him more or less out of duty than love. In the novel, I noticed that whatever affection they had for one another did not strike me as true love, but more of something like a friendship that could, perhaps, one day turn into love.

As for the intimate scene between Erik and Christine, I find it to be rather plausible, seeing as Erik is not one to let something go twice. I believe that he wanted to somehow make for sure she would not leave him again. And why not the ultimate consummation between two people? I trust that it is something that we hopeless romantics yearn to see in stories, especially in something as compelling as The Phantom of the Opéra.

Update: November 3, 2009: I have revised and added italics where discourse is taking place in the past. There is also a quote from Edgar Allen Poe's The Masque of the Red Death, which attempts to emphasise the context of the story. I hope that this revised version of Idle Recollections on a Red Death is better than when I had first posted it in late 2006. I have changed little, only attempted to enhance the original's purpose, if not its overall integrity.