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Music of the Night

Down in the dark catacombs of the Paris Opera House with Raoul chained to a gate awaiting his death, Christine had to think fast.

Five stories underneath the chaos befalling the once magnificent Opera Populaire-now being devoured by the flames of the Phantom's rage- no one would come to help, even if by some miracle her cries for help were heard. Crying, begging, and pleading had not worked. He wanted her, forever, not having to share her with that pathetic excuse of a boy who dared call himself her "lover".

And as Christine knew her Angel, he would settle for nothing less.

Just as Erik secured the rope around the pitiful Vicomte's neck, ensuring it was nice and tight, he began advancing toward Christine, once again giving her the ultimatum: Love him, accept him, choose him, and Raoul goes free; refuse him and she sends her lover to his grave.

As Erik approached, his pleading eyes met hers, once more silently confessing his love. Much to everyone's surprise, Christine took a small step towards the Phantom, and another, no longer hesitant, closing the distance between them until her face was no more than a few inches from his.

As she looked into his eyes, she pondered what she saw. She had never seen Erik like this. He looked so vulnerable, even fragile. He stood there, not as the infamous Opera Ghost. His presence was not intimidating as it so often was. He stood there, not even as her "Angel". There was nothing divine about him, aside from his voice, but even that was fading to the voice of any human, cracking as it struggled to produce sound, abandoning any attempt to mask the rage, sadness—love-rushing through him.

No, what stood before her now, was no more than a man-an empty, broken man, yearning for what has been denied him since birth: Compassion. Pity. Anything to show him he was not alone in this world. Something to tell him that when the world turned to face him, only to point and laugh, someone would be there, not to look upon his mask or his marred flesh, but into his eyes, into his soul.

He longed for love.

It was then that Christine knew what she was going to do, what she must do. Christine slipped the ring onto her slender finger, and gently pressed her lips to his, in an attempt to free herself and Raoul, but also as an act of compassion. Erik's lips were soon pressing back against hers, hesitant at first, but then in a strong, passionate, yet gentle manner.

Christine tried to contain her emotion, the rush of ecstasy with each feather light brush of his hands, the way her heart beat uncontrollably and her legs trembled, threatening to buckle under her quivering form, as the room spun around him-her Angel of Music.

As she was sure he would feel the love seeping through her lips to him, she pulled away, a moment too soon…only to throw her arms around his neck and tangle thin digits in his sparse, soft hair, trying to hold him as close to her as her now weak arms could manage as she once more crushed her lips to his. Although it couldn't have been more than a few seconds that passed, she felt as though time had frozen, just for them, as he wrapped his strong arms around her small frame.

Suddenly, the reality of the situation flooded into her mind. As she unwillingly pulled away, reluctantly releasing her grasp, she saw poor Raoul still bound to the portcullis. She pushed her mixed emotions aside, for fear she would be crushed under their weight on her fragile shoulders, and went to untie the ropes that bound her childhood friend. Her thoughts still drifted back to Erik, as the kiss still burned on her lips.

He was walking away, sobbing violently as he told them to leave, for the angry Parisians were sure to be on their way.

"Take her, forget me. Forget all you've seen. Go now! Don't let them find you! Take the boat, swear to me, never to tell, the secrets you know of the 'Angel' in Hell!"

How could she leave him now?

"Go now!" he began to yell, "Go now and leave me!" and with that Raoul left to ready the boat for their escape. Christine wandered off in search of her tutor, planning to say goodbye.

She did not have to search long, for she soon found Erik sitting in the Louis-Philippe room, looking at a figurine of a monkey garbed in Persian robes with a set of cymbals attached to each mechanical arm. Once again turning to music as the only solace he's ever known, he began to sing.

"Masquerade, paper faces on parade. Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you."

Just as she stepped into the room, he turned to face her, looking deep into her eyes. She felt as though his beautiful, pleading eyes would burn right through her very soul. She tried to look down, but the cyan depths of those adoring glass eyes held her gaze for what seemed an eternity.

The silence was broken as the catacombs were filled with a beautiful, Angelic…broken…baritone. Four small words swirled around her in the ethereal melody of his voice, in one last attempt to save what could have been, should have been, but was now lost.

"Christine, I love you."

Without a word, she simply slid the ring off her finger, placed it in his hands, and left.

As he watched her drift away towards a life of light with her precious Vicomte, sound burst forth from burning throat before he could think to stop it.

This was not the soft flowing melody of a promise of darkness' warmth as it had been that one fateful evening when he had brought her from her world to his. Nor was this the hypnotic Night's Music used to lure a young ingénue to a strange new world, or the siren's call singing lyrics of love and burning passion.

This was the song of a lone, tortured soul, mourning a lost love, a lost life.

"You alone can make my song take flight. It's over now, the Music of the Night!"

There sat the Phantom in his solitude.

He sat there, listening, as the gondola cut through the glassy water of the underground lake…and then…silence.

The boat had stopped, as had his heart, but only to continue on its way. All hope was gone…but then, out of the shadows of his despair, came a voice more beautiful than anything he'd ever heard; a young soprano, high and filled with joy. He couldn't bear it. He knew the cold feelings of loss and despair that would follow the realization that all he was hearing was the lingering sweetness of a memory.

Erik moved to sit on the bank of the underground lake. Just as he rose and turned around, there she stood.

His Christine.

She was singing lovelier than ever before, more beautiful than the Angel of Music himself, "You alone can make my song take flight."

He didn't even try to fight the new flow of tears, but only responded, "Help me make the Music of the Night!"

And with that, she took a small, sure step towards her Angel, and before she could speak, his lips crushed hers, strong, soft, and gentle. His large arms wound around her, caressing a body that had held too many a burden with soft, feather-light touches, sending shivers down her spine with each brush of his hands over trembling form. His right hand moved up to cradle her face, while his left arm slid around her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him, holding her ever so gently, all the while, promising never to let her go.

~Fin~