A/N: I'm pleased to present another donation to the Phantom of the Opera archive. I should make a point to note that this is a separate piece from "Angel" and should be read as such. Also, this piece is written more exclusively from the movie's interpretation of this beautiful love story. I worked very hard on this one and sincerely hope it shows. A review is, as always, much appreciated.

Title: Quintessence

Summary: Sometimes it is within a simple kiss that ones finds the truest embodiment of love.

Character Pairing: Erik x Christine

Rating: M for sexual content

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or details affiliated with The Phantom of the Opera. All rights belong to the original creators.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

~ Emily Brontë

Angel of Music—it had been his role when they first met. She had been but a child, young and curious for this new world of art and music in which she'd found herself, yet still fearful to live one day without her father's strong, unwavering love and support at her side, all while wholly uncertain of the task she was now expected to perform in exchange for Madame Giry's charity and sympathy. And then one night, he had appeared as naught but a faceless melody, kind words spoken in the darkness to her and only her. And he had been there the next night, and all nights to follow. His song had been hers to hear, sung to no other ears but hers.

The Opera Ghost—it had been his role as the years carried her to the peak of her youth, to a young beauty who caught the attention of many, most especially Raoul's, her childhood friend and companion. And it was her voice that had captivated them all, entranced those around her with a tool cultivated and refined by years and years of lessons. She knew they would all listen when she sang; known even through the initial fear and trepidation of her debut that they all would listen and marvel and adore. And so they did—Raoul especially, coming to her in awe with his flowers and recollections of the past when innocence was still theirs. But none of them had been there to hear her song in its early stages, long before it had reached perfection. Only he had heard it. He had listened with patience even when her voice was not fit for the ears of an angel, and through his deliberate instruction had inspired her voice—no, inspired her soul—with his own. In the end she had been rewarded with the presence of an angel before her eyes. No longer was he a faceless angel, no longer a ghost lingering in her shadow, but a man. He had revealed himself to her when she'd called…had shown his face to her and no other. She had striven to please him, offer him nothing less than perfection in her voice to make it fit for heavenly beings, and in turn she had been given a guardian of flesh and blood...a protector to love and defend her...and be adored in return.

She should have been ashamed to think such things, to bestow kindness and acceptance upon the name of a murderer—and he was a murderer. She'd known it to be his hand that strangled the life from both Joseph Buquet and Piangi, and undoubtedly there had been others before them. Those strong hands whose touch she'd craved so often, into whose embrace she'd willingly placed herself, were hands stained with blood. And it was in these hands she now found herself once again, being forcefully dragged down into the depths of the opera house.

Her eyes darted back and forth, one moment returning to the rapidly-fading light behind them, the next staring desperately at him, hoping he would offer some explanation for his actions while simultaneously knowing such an answer would never come.

Down once more into despair, into a darkness so deep and unfathomable that light could never hope to penetrate it. Even the burning flames atop the torch clenched in his hand—the sole manufacturer of light guiding their way—seemed to cower under the oppressive shadows as they descended lower and lower into the catacombs. The cries and shouts that had previously seemed just within reach rapidly faded against her ears; all that was left to be heard was the blood rushing hot and fast through her veins.

He pushed her down into his boat with little regard, her hands serving as the only protection for her body as she collapsed before him. A momentary fear gripped her, waiting for him to strike her or inflict some other punishment for her crime—an action which to others would seem the most innocent was to him nothing less than a damnable offense. But there was no movement, save for the fierce forward thrust of the vessel as he steered them forward across the river. The torch lay a short distance away, enabling her to catch a few glimpses of the murky waters below. But that which she truly craved to see—his face—was lost to the shadows.

Many times, more than could be counted, she sought her voice, trying to call out for him. Angel, Master, Teacher…all names fell dead on her tongue, all of his titles completely useless when her voice was so paralyzed.

Yet why…why had her voice failed her now of all times? Perhaps it was simply from fear—she had every right to fear him now, with the anger in his eyes and the unfeeling grasp of his hand that had left invisible bruises along her tender palm. And more than anything, she feared what plans he had for her, down in this endless pit of his solitude.

But still there was something else, something far greater and more powerful that overrode even her fears to steal away her voice. Some nameless emotion that she had experienced before, many times since she'd first heard his voice lifted in song, and then again as she finally saw his masked face. But never had this feeling been quite as great as just a few moments earlier when they had sung a duet far more passionate than ever before, lost themselves to the music and forsaken all else around them. And never before had she so longed to drown in this feeling, completely lose herself within its hold even if she was doomed to never fully understand it, as when he'd pulled her into his embrace and offered a sweet melody meant for her ears alone.

He was still hers—her teacher and her partner. And she was still his—she had always been his. Everything he had done was for her…always and only for her.

Even his anger was for her—she knew it as he roughly lifted her from the boat and dragged her on shore before throwing her up against the stone walls of his home and fitting his hands tightly around the small curve of her shoulders. She could feel it as his fingers bruised her tender skin without much regard; all previous concern for her well-being seemed lost to the throes of his fury as he held her in place.

There was no mistaking the purity of his anger—and no longer was it directed at Vicomtes or arrogant opera house managers. It was all for her. It was her name he spoke with such agony and grief clinging to the word, and it was into her eyes that he looked with fury and grief all mixed within two smoldering depths.

"Why…?" he whispered, body trembling, chest heaving with erratic and shallow breaths. Her silence seemed to only anger him further, as he shook her roughly, "Why?"

She could offer no words, only stare mutely into those eyes. Such raw emotion was present there, and there was no mask to conceal or contain it any longer—her actions had ensured that. She could see the pain she'd inflicted within him, his eyes clearly reflecting the betrayal that had exposed his deformity for ignorant people who could never understand the pain and disgrace such an infliction had brought him. They had only shrieked out in horror and disgust, just as so many others must have done. Their disgust was solid and irrefutable proof of their ignorance, just as sure as it should have been hers, and had been hers at a time in a moment which now seemed the reaction of a reckless child and not of the woman she could dare think herself to be. The anguish flooding his eyes brought an indescribable ache to the very core of her being, as though it were her deformity that had just been unveiled. And it had been by her hand once again that his features were so blatantly placed on display, this time for the mass public—simple-minded fools as naïve to the depths of his pain as she once had been. How shameful it was to think she could have ever looked upon his face with only concern for her own fear and nothing for his suffering.

Yet she had changed, and done so in such a short span of time that it might have astonished her, had she permitted her mind to further dwell on it. This moment was not akin to the first time she'd viewed his distorted features, when she had immediately turned away in horror. She could not bring herself to look away from him now, even when his distorted features were set so clear and vivid before her eyes. The first time she had dared lift the mask from his face had offered only a glimpse of what lay beneath, and the memory utterly paled in comparison to this moment. Everything was clear, set bared and exposed for her to look without reservation, all the while risking his rage at her blatant intrigue.

He suddenly drew away from her, and the peace of the moment was broken. One hand lifted to cover his distorted features as he slowly moved away from her. "Put that on," he said quietly, gesturing to the wedding dress, set there before her in its innocent perfection. "I will be waiting."

It was the fragile peace after his fury, and a lesser mind might have presumed his temper to have completely ebbed and dissipated, leaving the air clear and free. She knew better…which made her all the more a fool for her answer.

"No,"

The answer passed her lips long before she even registered speaking. It was hardly an astounding or remarkable declaration; she certainly hadn't shouted or raised her voice at all. But here in the heavy silence surrounding them, she knew he'd heard her answer as clear as though she'd shrieked.

She could only identify his movements by the soft, nearly inaudible scrape of his boots upon the stone—slow and deliberate. It took a few short steps for him to close the distance between them, but once she felt him standing just mere inches from the corner against which she stood, he made no other attempt to approach her. Perhaps—and she flattered herself to think such—he was too surprised by her defiance to make any movement to approach her.

"Do not test me, Christine," his voice was low and tight, and her suspicions proved true—his anger had not yet fully disappeared, "Assume your role for this evening. It is simply one more of the many you have played and should thus be easy enough for you to accomplish—you are such a fine actress."

There was a distinct bitterness lacing his words, and her silent but furious reaction to such words served as proof, even to her own mind, that her days of being a fanciful child who believed in the perfection angels were long over. Now she has both aware of and accustomed to the injuries which love and hatred alike could inflict upon the heart of a man, and the distortions which resulted as a consequence. She was no fool; she knew precisely which one of her numerous betrayals had conceived this bitterness. Yet even when she thought to beg forgiveness, his words proved too much of an affront for her to so easily ignore. She would not simply stand there and be called a liar…not by him. He thought to use her skills as an actress against her? How easily he forgot that it was him who made her such a fine little portrayal of deceit.

After all…she had learned from him far more than the art of music.

"I will do no such thing." She replied, turning her face only slightly in his direction, but otherwise she declined to approach him and once again play the obedient student. "As of late, I have assumed far too many roles for my liking. I have played the wandering child, the willing victim, and now the seductive bait and cunning trap all in one. I will assume no other roles tonight, and…and neither will you."

A heavy silence followed, and when he spoke again, she knew her defiance had provoked his anger once again. She seemed exceptionally talented at inviting his temper, especially when she had no such intentions. Strange now she spoke so freely, knowing it would rile his fury and fearing none of it. God help her…she just might have actually sought his rage—hoped for it.

"You will not presume to tell me what to do, Christine," he hissed, "Unless you desire to continually rouse the beast within me, do as you are told."

"You are many, many things." She answered quietly, fingers tightening against the wall as she spoke. The stone scrapped against her knuckles, but she would acknowledge no pain—or at least, take it and channel it all into her will lest she waver and cower now when she had come so far. "And a beast within, you may yet prove to be. But you are still a man, a being of flesh and blood, just as I am a woman. Not an angel, not a ghost, not a phantom…but a man. And I…I will not allow you to assume any role that suggests you are otherwise."

Silence once more followed her words, broken by a hollow sound that she vaguely recognized as laughter—empty, lifeless laughter. "A man…" he repeated slowly, and she heard his fingers scrape against the stone...was he clenching his fist? "You seek the man do you, Christine? You seek the hollow shell that remains after all these years of despair, of enduring cruelty the likes of which you could never hope to comprehend? You seek the soul ravaged by hatred and disgust—inflicted first by a mother's disgrace, then by the rest of the world? No…no, Christine. I will wear any mask you desire, assume any role you could possibly wish, but do not ask this of me. Do not ask me to remain so exposed that you will see the ugliness within me. I cannot, will not endure the sight of disgust and horror as it twists your face yet again."

She would have liked to erase the past and play the better woman, to have never lost her wholehearted devotion to her angel even after knowing he was no heavenly creature but a disfigured man of flesh and blood. She would have liked to deny her disgust and play his affections in such a way that he might believe her, but she would have been a fool for it—a fool as she was in so many other regard. It was not so long ago that she'd allowed fear to drive her actions. Just as he'd reminded her only a few short days earlier in the cemetery, her revulsion had turned her away from true beauty, brought her to shun the man who had inspired her voice and taught her to hear music as she'd never heard before.

Perhaps her simple-minded ideals and fantasies had blinded her to the beauty that could be found within him. The distortion of his face was a part of him, just like his voice—his golden voice that so often had mesmerized her, enthralled her down to the core. She had embraced his voice so often…why could she not do the same for his face…for the rest of his tattered soul?

"What is your name…?" her voice shook slightly, but even so there was little hesitation to be found in her words. She knew what she wanted, and in her defiant curiosity, he too must understand what it was she sought from him. But that did not mean he would so quickly relinquish it.

"Enough questions," there was a stern reprimand in his voice now that was akin to a father scolding a child, and she could hear him shift away from the wall, "Do as I say, Christine—put that dress on now."

She steeled herself, once more seeking support in the wall behind her. A tiny trickle of liquid heat seeped down between her fingers, and once again she used pain to encourage and strengthen her resolve. This was a determination of which she'd never thought herself capable—who would have ever thought the shrinking violet and fragile little doll that pranced about on stage without a care in the world to be so willful? She'd always been a curious child, yes, but she was also the first to back down if her curiosity had been rebuked.

But things had changed. He had changed her. Whether she'd been changed for the better, she could not yet know. But she had been changed, and right now that was all that seemed to matter. His voice had opened her eyes tonight to show her just how blind she'd become—how blind she had allowed herself to become solely for the safety and security which fear had offered to her. But she finally understood everything now—his voice made her understand once again, as it had so many times before.

"Tell me your name." her voice rose slightly, unwilling to let him escape for something as trivial as an inability to hear her clearly.

His movements were quick and conspicuous in his frustration, and he quickly rounded the corner to face her once again. This time, he was met not with fear or concern but with resilience and determination. For a brief passing moment, he actually looked taken aback by this transformation. But as soon as she allowed herself to blink, his anger was there to ignite his eyes once again.

"What use does my name have for you, Christine?" he demanded furiously, "Is this just one more tool with which you would betray me?"

She couldn't quite contain her anger at the accusation, and she knew it flashed in the depths of her eyes as she met his gaze. "I hardly think I am the traitor here."

His movements were quick like a serpent's, unpredictable yet deliberate, and Christine gasped as he thrust her violently against the wall with one hand pressed to her clavicle and the other holding her chin in a vice grip. There was pain, such pain at having her angel treat her this way, but she fought down the tears a little while longer. He would taste her anger before he indulged himself on her grief.

"How dare you?" his voice rose in a furious shout, the rage more readily apparent in his eyes than ever before, "You would stand there and brand me the traitor—me, after all you have done? You who abandoned and denied your teacher for the frivolities offered by some cavalier milksop who could never understand your voice and your soul as I do! You who manipulate my affections for your own purpose, tempting me with pleasures of which I scarcely dream and then ripping them from my hold! You who use your beauty and passion as instruments of pure torture, breaking apart what still remains whole of my soul without care or regard! You who know the love I hold for you and seek from you, and instead you give it to that ignorant fool who would destroy your spirit just as I would protect and nurture it! You who betrayed me—your teacher—and would continue to do so again and again, just so long as it amuses you…and you dare call me the traitor!"

There was no silence to follow his words, not now that her anger nearly matched his own. And if he had no ultimate intention than to kill her and rid himself of the pain she'd unknowingly inflicted upon him, then she might as well speak and be heard before her voice was completely silenced.

"You would stand there and demand my love, my affection and my heart?" she whispered, voice shaking as her anger finally spilled over, "You would seek the purest, deepest emotion of my being, to be given to you and only you, yet you cannot—will not—trust me? You did not trust me with your physical presence until it suited you to do so. You have not trusted me with your face until I forced you to do so. And now you cannot trust me with something as simple as your name?"

He stared into her eyes for the briefest moment, and then his shoulders shook with another wave of that empty laughter—God, how she hated that sound. "Trust?" he repeated, "You speak of trust, Christine? You believe I could trust you when I have trusted no other? I want to…God, how I want to trust you! But how can you possibly ask for such a thing from me after all the pain we have caused each other? Or do you believe a few kind words will bring the light into my distorted soul and suddenly all will be well for us both? You believe the sweetness of your smile will draw out the poison that courses through my veins and I will stand before you a new man, as whole and perfect as your Vicomte? Is that what you believe? Is that why you would seek my trust?"

Christine fell silent for a long moment, and perhaps she would have remained silent even longer, but for reasons unknown but altogether irrelevant, the feel of his hand leaving her face seemed to spur a reaction within her.

"You speak of poison…of distortion?" she whispered, meeting the fierceness of his gaze with her own defiance, "Is that it then? You believe your face is the true barrier between us? That if you could become a man without physical imperfection, all would be well between us? Is that what you believe?"

He did not answer, but in his silence and the confusion that ebbed away the darkness of anger, the truth shone clear as the breaking of dawn. She released a sigh, daring to step away from the wall and finding no resistance from his hand as it simply fell away from her skin. A few short steps brought her to a mirror, one of the many adorning his underground home. But like all the others, this one was covered with thick velvet. Even with the mask as his protection, still he feared his reflection, risking not even the briefest glimpse in the glassy panes.

Her hand reached for the soft cloth, firmly drawing it away until the fabric lay in a heap beside her bare feet. Slowly, Christine turned back to face him, still standing there with confusion writ across his features. "Are you so blind that you cannot see the truth?" she whispered, "Or are you too afraid to properly face it?"

He met her gaze, some traces of his defiance returning with her question. "What truth?"

He may have appeared exasperated with the incessant questions of a mere child, but she could hear the trepidation in his voice. He did not understand what point she was trying to make, and this uncertainty unnerved him. Surely he was not accustomed to lacking knowledge when he knew so much of this world—both good and bad.

"Your face has never inspired disgust or horror within this heart." She set a hand across her left breast, just to emphasize the point. "And whether or not you wish to acknowledge it, still you know it to be true. Disgust and horror existed only in my mind as a simple result of my ignorance—a fault I utterly despise myself for ever feeling, and one which inspired my every betrayal. But I am no longer abhorred by your face or your rage…only afraid."

She watched his eyes, feeling her words catch slightly in the net of her unshed tears. "I fear you, ange…I do. I fear the power which your music holds. I fear the beauty and splendor that exists within a world so dark and cold. I fear the rage that a lifetime of pain and despair has wrought within your soul. I fear the desire which drives your thoughts and actions. I fear of the passion you feel for me and seek from me."

Another pause followed, and then she added, in a softer tone, hardly daring to let the words pass from the secrecy of her mind, "And…I fear the passion…the desire…and the darkness which you stir within me."

His eyes slowly lifted to hers once more, having previously turned away with her confession of fear—fear of his rage and fury. Of course he had to have known she feared him, feared just how easily she could provoke the wild animal that lay barely dormant within him with little more than a careless word or action, but to hear her openly admit it…she knew it had to be painful, perhaps even greater than any injury she'd previously inflicted upon him. And she knew it was such a grievance because he could never fully be rid of his anger—a lifetime of grief and sorrow could not so easily be cast away.

"But it is not your face which spurns me from your side." She continued, "No physical distortion is so great that it could break my faith in you. I have witnessed your rage, endured the sufferings that come from being your obsession and greatest desire. And still have I not returned to your side, time after time? Still have I not played the obedient student and returned to my teacher when he calls for me?"

Anger returned to his face, tightening the already distorted lines. "You return not to me, but to your Vicomte. You seek his perfection when I could offer you true beauty, dismiss my passion and longing for his simple caress and chaste embrace. Your eyes see only his physical wholeness and reject my ugliness—and rightfully so, I will not deny it. But kindly do not pretend your actions are otherwise motivated. Do not think me so blind that I cannot see where your true loyalties lie, Christine."

"Aren't you?" she answered quietly, "I made my choice perfectly clear only a few moments ago…or did your fear not allow you to hear it?"

"Your words were—"

"Do not presume my words to be some mere trick or idle gesture." Christine interrupted, voice again lifting in frustration. "I was not acting out some well-rehearsed role or engaging in some simple-minded fantasy only to change my mind moments later! I made my choice! I chose you, without resistance or regret, and still you will not believe it!"

She felt her heart thundering against the seemingly fragile bones of her ribcage, and for a moment she thought the organ might wrench itself free and fall to the stone floor to lie there before his eyes so he could see just how her heart beat for him—because of him and him alone. What more could she do to convince him and demonstrate the desire to fully rid herself of this burden which had been placed upon her after years of assuming different roles, different names and faces until she was hardly sure where the true Christine lay beneath the layers of masks, or if Christine had finally been lost to the stage and was never to return again?

What could she do to prove that Christine did still exist—existed only because of and for him alone? Not for Raoul or the opera cast, but him?

"This is the true distortion within you—your fear to trust. You seek my heart and my love, but when it is offered freely, you refuse to trust that it comes without reservations or restraints!" she paused only for a moment, then offered up a short cry of laughter, so empty and void of emotion that it rivaled that which had come from his mouth moments earlier, "So then tell me, ange, do you seek the heart of a lover or of a slave—a prisoner who could offer you anything and everything you ask, but never with honest passion, always with reluctance and fear present in heart and mind? Tell me now, so I may know which role to assume since you will not love me without some mask or costume to hide my heart! Tell me which mask you wish to love, since you no longer wish to love Christine—Christine as she is and who she has always longed to be!"

Her words rang throughout the silence, her chest rising and falling with the shallow breaths escaping her lungs. Yet even amidst the anger she felt, there was relief. Finally she had allowed herself to speak freely, to speak as she never would have been permitted elsewhere. With a slight twinge upon her conscience, she acknowledged that to speak freely in front of Raoul would have been the height of impropriety. And yet as the phantom slowly approached her, she could see some trace of awe present there in his eyes—barely visible, yet still apparent. To think Raoul would have been so intrigued at her strength was nearly laughable.

"It is for your Vicomte that you wear such a mask," he whispered, but he sounded as though he were trying to convince himself of his words rather than her, "You suffocate your true spirit beneath a facade of innocence and purity, feigning naivety when you are stronger than he could ever hope to fathom. I would free your spirit, Christine…you know I would."

"Yes, I do." She answered, and she knew it was true—she wanted it to be true and she would believe it be true until he proved her otherwise. "But for you, I wear another mask—one to cover my eyes so that I may never see your true face, and to cover my ears so that I may never hear the truth that stems from your music and the very depths of your soul. And you too will always wear a mask, one where you never have to offer trust to me…where you will never have to offer me your true heart."

The silence passed shorter this time, broken this time by a ragged gasp from his lips as her fingers touched his tattered cheek. It was a soft caress, but not one borne from fear or even obligation. It was honest curiosity—a damning virtue that had so often been the cause of her pain, but now finally brought some pleasure in the most unexpected way. It felt good to touch him, to feel the flesh that always had been so carefully hidden from her gaze. The skin was cold and so heavily wrought with thick, knotted scars that it could barely be recognized as living flesh. But it was, and it was a part of him just as much as anything else. How blind she had been to think it some curse or condemnation that branded him a monster…that this face made him any less of a man than Raoul, or any man for that matter.

"Don't you see…?" she whispered, carefully tracing the curve of his brow with her finger, "I would let you set my spirit free, sweet ange…if only you would trust me to set you free."

His hand closed around her wrist, and for a moment she waited for him to pull her away, to rid himself of such an alien touch. But the moment passed without incident, and so she allowed her touches to grow bold, setting gentle pressure upon his cheek, his brow, his nose, and across the parted seam of his mouth from which ragged breaths passed. Slowly, his other hand joined its fellow around her wrist and his cheek tilted ever so slightly into her palm. There was something wet streaking down between her fingers, but she remained confused only until she saw the first droplet fall freely from where his hands held her wrist. He was crying.

She stared at his tears, mesmerized. It was such simple perfection, innocence in its purest form falling from his eyes upon her skin. He trembled with this sudden onslaught of emotions and sensations that she knew he could have never before experienced. Finally, these features which had been met with such cruelty and brutality now brought tenderness and comfort from soft, simple touches—her touch.

"Tell me your name, mon ange…" she whispered once more, somehow knowing that this time he would not refuse her. Perhaps in her own right she was taking advantage of him, utilizing a title of childlike adoration to coax the desired information from his lips. She knew he could never refuse her if she deemed him an angel once again, allowed him to taste the illusion just once more even in the twisted face of reality.

Inanely, she bit back tears of her own, cursing that reality could not hold the same taste of bliss as dreams and wondrous fantasies where angels reigned supreme and carried little frightened girls away to a place only of music and nothing else…nothing but them.

"…Erik." His voice was just barely audible—how strange that a voice filled with such power and wonder could fall to such a soft, helpless whisper against her palm! And yet his words had never seemed so clear and distinct to her ears.

"Erik," she repeated, savoring the feel of his name passing across her tongue. The last barrier was finally removed, and for the first time he was truly whole and complete in her eyes—neither ghost nor phantom, but a man just like any other…of flesh and blood with a name. A man she could desire…a man she could love.

Her other hand moved to cup his left cheek, cradling his whole face between her palms. The tears fell fast and free, and she caught them all against her skin. They were warm, seeping down into her cells as though they were always meant to be there—little tiny parts of her being that had been missing for so long, now finally returned to her by the man standing before her, loving her and adoring her as any man would a woman.

And he was a man. He was Erik. The Opera Ghost would never have wept so openly, nor would the Phantom. He had finally shed those roles for her, no longer assuming a mask or guise to hide behind. She had asked for the man, and it was a man he presented to her. Finally, she could know Erik…she could care for Erik.

She could love Erik.

Soft lips pressed warm kisses along the misshapen slope of his face, briefly pausing at his brow before descending to his eyelid, catching the freely flowing tears with her lips and relishing the salty taste. A ragged moan caught her attention, and she drew away to examine whether such a sound was borne of pain or pleasure. The way his hands suddenly grasped her hips and anchored her in place assured her that pain was hardly present, only a clear disbelief that his mind was not playing some cruel trick with his heart. Smiling quietly, she set another kiss to his cheek, her fingertips brushing through the thin hair clinging to his ravaged skull.

His head bowed low as he wept, coming to rest in the cradle of her shoulder. Perhaps she should have been abhorred then to fully feel the scarred mass against her bare skin, to have him bury such deformity against her flawless form like a child seeking its mother's affection. And in this moment perhaps she had assumed yet another role—willingly or unconsciously—and become a maternal support to a grown man, consenting to be understanding and not racked with confusion as he shed tears over her affection. But she felt no regret or trepidation as her arms came around him. Perhaps it was for complex and sub-conscious reasons, but more likely it was for the simple pleasure she received of being needed—not for her voice or her innocent beauty, but for something as simple as her touch. That which she so often dismissed or took for granted brought her Angel of Music to his knees, dissipating all traces of rage with naught but a soft caress to his physical imperfection.

"Christine…" her name was a breathless prayer of adoration offered from his lips, and she shivered to hear it spoken as such. His head tilted slightly, eyes half-lidded as he drew closer. Unwilling to consider the ramifications of the desire stirring within her veins, she closed her eyes and offered her lips for his kiss.

But it never came.

Her eyes opened, confusion and hurt mingled as one across her face. "Erik…?"

"I think, my dear," he said quietly, his gaze not for her but for something across the lake, and she felt an inexplicable swell jealousy emerge to think she could so easily lose his attention, "we have a guest."

She did not need to question further, not with the silence abruptly broken by her name—not from his lips, but from those of another. And even if she had not recognized the newcomer's voice, the bitterness that laced Erik's voice would have been more than enough for her to guess who their guest was.

Raoul stood there at the gate, drenched from what she could easily imagine a treacherous swim throughout the catacombs to arrive at the phantom's lair. It was something from a child's fairytale book—the white knight braving the jaws of death to save her, the pretty princess, from a terrible fate inflicted by the cruel hands of the opera beast. And the scene was set perfectly to match the story—Raoul, the heroic knight with his pristine appearance, untouched skin and manicured hands set to near perfection even when he stood drenched to the bone; Erik, the beast to be slain with his ravaged features and clothes torn from the hasty descent, furious loathing set across his expression as he observed the Vicomte standing at his door.

And then there was Christine, the fair maiden standing at the brink of life and death, salvation or damnation, heaven or hell. The silence weighed heavier than ever before, speaking more than words could ever hope. This was the real choice before her, all others falling inconsequential in comparison to the decision she must make between two men—the white knight and the opera beast.

"Christine!" Raoul called for her once again, his eyes running over the spectacle before him with disdain—the disfigured phantom touching the fair maiden with bloodied hands, his body drawn so close to hers in some primitive gesture of wanton lust and she allowing it as she stood helpless under his bewitchment, "Free her, demon! Do what you please to all others, but free her now! Heed my words before it is too late!"

Too late? Too late for what? Too late for her to reconsider decisions already made, to allow her fear to replace the wondrous peace and comfort she'd felt in the presence of the murderous madman from whom Raoul had come to save her? Too late to prevent her from reaching the true point of no return, where she gave herself over body, mind, and soul to the darkness?

Was it even possible to truly escape this darkness? It had always threatened to consume her, yet she'd managed to tuck it away and face the light with innocence and grace all while silently battling the seduction of music—his music and all the beauty that came with it.

She had not always been this way, and perhaps that was why Raoul called out for her salvation. He remembered her still as the child, sweet and curious yet shy and reserved, who was always content to live in pretty fairytales without knowledge of the darkness that always lay in wait just beyond the walls of her naïve world. It must be that child for whom Raoul now called, seeking to retrieve her from the monster's clutch before she could be tainted and robbed of her innocence.

It was her innocence that Raoul sought—her purity and modesty, nothing more.

But Raoul with his kind words and sweet promises did not understand. He could not, would not accept that things had changed—that she had changed. She had begun this downward spiral from the moment Erik first called out to her with siren voice and haunting melody. The song which had first called to Raoul was soft and angelic, a tender harmony fit for the respected name which she was expected to take upon their wedding day. And her nuptials would permit her to sing only those soft little melodies—nothing that spoke of raw passions or desires, for that would simply be improper. She would sing only of springtime and tender feelings for a brief moment before music would forever be barred from her life. There was no place for the opera in the world of a Vicomte.

But within Erik's world, she could hope for music and passion beyond her wildest dreams—she had sung of such forbidden things this very night, hadn't she? Had she not lifted her voice in duet with Erik—her angel, her teacher—and sung of burning desire, of fires that inflame the heart and soul, of seduction so powerful and all-consuming that none could offer resistance but instead succumb and drown within its flames? And had she not felt it then as she'd never felt before—the blood rushing white-hot through her veins as she sang to him, and the power of his voice enthralling her down to the core? Had she not fully embraced him and rendered herself completely at his mercy, all while savoring the feel of his hands upon her skin as he offered a plea for her love and affection?

And had she not just surrendered herself once again to such desires when he brought her to this place, not simply allowing the darkness but openly demanding it as she'd ripped away every last barrier around his body and soul, forsaking all illusions and fantasies for the brutal honesty that lay beneath it all? Had she not embraced the darkness of his passion while simultaneously accepting the weakness of his broken heart, gracing him with tenderness and offering promises to never again flee from his distortions? Had she not freely offered her lips and sought his kiss, and had she not experienced grief when she did not taste his kiss?

Truly…had she not made her decision long ago—perhaps longer than she ever realized?

Erik's hands tightened around her waist, drawing her closer to him with an unmistakable air of possessive desire. Her eyes returned to his to find them mere inches from her own, searching her face and perhaps even the very depths of her soul. She knew not what precisely he sought from her, and while she might have been able to guess—and do so with accuracy—she was not inclined to play such games. She maintained his gaze without fail, keeping her heart open and her eyes clear of fear or any such emotion. Whatever answers he sought, let him find them without hindrance.

Raoul's voice again interrupted what might otherwise be a moment of peace and sweet tranquility. Truly, without his persistent disruptions they both might be allowed to forget all other circumstances surrounding them, permitted to live in this moment where they find answers to unspoken questions solely within the depths of each others' eyes. She should have been ashamed to harbor such resentment for her childhood friend, just as she ought to be ashamed of her illicit desire for a murderer.

But she wasn't.

"Monster!" he called, straining at the rusted bars as though they would yield to his motions, "Release her! Remove your hands from her, murderer!"

All at once Erik relinquished his hold, drawing away as though to hold her a moment longer would irreparably taint her body and soul. And even as she stood watching him move further away and ultimately face Raoul at the gate, instinct demanded that she return to his embrace even if she must force his arms around her. Raoul—her friend, her fiancée—spoke as though his touch would inflict harm upon her. Yet she could think of no other place that would offer such security as Erik's arms. She would sooner have him crush her against his chest and clench her within his hold until she could scarcely breathe. Even the pain of being suffocated in his possessive embrace would be a finer fate than to remain here, left alone and cold without his presence.

"You presume much, monsieur," Erik whispered in a tightly clipped tone—a precursor to his rage that she easily recognized, recalling all-too vividly from those unfortunate times when she had been subject to his temper, "to think I would bring harm to her."

Raoul fully returned his disdain, mingled with disgust as he observed the phantom's features—even from a distance he openly displayed his contempt and horror. "I won't trust your hands to not spill her blood as they have others, monster." He spat the words with scorn and loathing, and she felt her blood boil as she witnessed Erik's furious shame. The Vicomte turned back to her, the distressed damsel in this story, compassion and pity written across his features as he reached for her.

"Christine," he called desperately, "Come quick, my darling, before his hands are upon you again!"

Absurdly, she thought to laugh and break this silence with the most inappropriate of reactions. And yet to laugh seemed strangely fitting as she considered Raoul's words more carefully. Was he blind or simply ignorant? Had he not previously witnessed her submission to Erik's touch on stage, relishing the feel of bloodstained hands upon her? Or was he still desperate enough to believe she was still under the bewitchment of the opera ghost and had thus only permitted his touch as a consequence of being lost in some hypnotic trance?

She looked once again to her teacher, finding those very hands clenched in fury. The skin was drawn too tight over the bones, stark white even against the pale color of his costume attire. The distorted lines of his face were all the more apparent, contorted in his rage, his shame, and inevitably his heartbreak. So many words formulated upon her tongue, so many things to say to him. Yet she could offer nothing but silence even as she knew it was torturous for him to endure.

"Christine!" Raoul called for her once again, calling for the innocent child who would run back to the safety offered by the light, purity and innocence. "Christine, quickly!" there was a bite of impatience in his voice now. Surely he did not understand why she hesitated when the decision to run should have been absurdly easy to make.

Her hand extended to Erik, fingers just brushing against his shoulder. Almost immediately, he jerked away as though her faint touch had burnt him flesh and bone. She waited for him to speak, to explain such a reaction or at least offer some other reprieve to this cursed silence, but he said nothing. The power and authority that so often graced his demeanor was gone. He looked tired—exhausted and beaten down as though by a thousand blows…just tired.

And she knew why. She knew he already presumed to know her decision, which road she would take. No longer could he bear to watch her run from his side; no doubt it was the greatest injury she had ever inflicted upon him, to have abandoned him time after time without ever realizing to what harmful degree her betrayal amounted. He was so certain of her choice that he could not even endure her touch, no doubt already convinced that she remained there with no other purpose but to torment him further, teasing him with her hesitation as though she would remain with him and then promptly rush to the Vicomte's open arms once again.

"Erik…" again she tried to reach him, and again she was unsuccessful. His hand clasped a lever and brought the gate up from its watery anchor. Only now did he turn to her, offering a mocking bow as he gestured to Raoul with contempt and despair mingled into one heartbreaking expression.

"Hurry along, sweet Christine," he hissed, and she trembled at the poisonous sound, "Your happy ending beckons you."

"Erik, please…" she knew her resolve was breaking, the strength and determination she'd managed to retain earlier now fading. Only moments ago had his arms been around her, holding her and needing her as she'd never been needed before in her life. He had spoken her name with such reverence, looked upon her with adoration and longing. Now he spoke her name as though it were a curse, tossed her away as he would some poisoned blade so that it may never again cause him injury.

"Go!" his voice again struck her to the core with its anguish and despair, his right hand sweeping out in a violent gesture to emphasize his words, "Leave me, Christine…leave me to my fate and escape to your own! Chain your spirit down and live out your days a hollow shell for all I care! Take your lover and go! Go now and leave me!"

Tears burned as they welled within her eyes—warm tears shed for his grief and cold tears for her ignorance. It had been her ignorance that first inspired disgust for his distorted features, ignorance that had brought her to the Vicomte's arms for supposed salvation. It had been ignorance that welcomed Raoul's kiss and accepted his ring, though perhaps her love for him for her childhood friend had inspired some small part of her actions. Always he had been kind to her, always there to treat her as a princess with him forever willing to be her perfect prince.

"I'm sorry…so sorry…" she whispered, completely uncertain who such soft words were intended to reach—Erik for her countless betrayals, or Raoul for the betrayal she was all-too willing to now make.

And she was sorry—a part of her grieved for the innocence she was forsaking. She was still young after all, and perhaps if her will was that of a lesser woman she would have made a picture-perfect bride for the Vicomte—perfection and innocence all wrapped around her femininity. It would be a simple life to live, and none would ever be the wiser to ever know the agony she would suffer, keeping her spirit under lock and key day after day, year after year.

A hand suddenly grasped her wrist, and she turned to find Raoul standing there, one foot on rocky ledge and the other still in the water. He clearly intended to waste no time and depart with his future bride without further incident. His blue eyes found Erik a short distance away, and apparently discontent with the space between them, he tugged on Christine's arm. She was too surprised to properly maintain her footing and stumbled toward him.

For the briefest moment, she felt guilt—guilt for her resistance and hesitation when Raoul was so desperately trying to save her. His noble ideals of playing the hero, stemming from their childhood when she still needed a white knight hero, had been the very inspiration that brought him here tonight. And even after he had braved death she still did not play her part and swoon in his arms as the rescued damsel should while the prince carried her away from the dragon's lair.

"Christine, come!" he whispered, urgently drawing her away into the water, "Quickly, darling, while we still can escape this devil's lair!" His voice openly offered such vehement disgust, casting one last look upon the phantom's distorted features with all the arrogance that ran through his noble blood.

In that moment her regrets seemed to disappear, for she hated him. She hated his disgust, his blatant ridicule of a man who no longer posed a threat in an anguished and broken state. She hated his ignorance and could have openly cursed herself for once sharing such simple-minded thoughts of her teacher...her Angel of Music. But more importantly, she hated him for freely viewing Erik's face. His face was hers—hers to explore, to touch and caress as she pleased, hers to fear and hers to love. Raoul had no right to view it, let alone view it without concern or regard.

And suddenly she knew. In little more than the blink of an eye, all became clear and did so in such a violent mental and emotional rush that she nearly lost her physical balance. She had one chance—perhaps her last chance—to hope for redemption. And without any further hesitation or prolonged contemplation, she seized her chance…all the while knowing too well it would not come without a price.

But God help her, it was a price she would pay.

A furious gesture ripped her arm from Raoul's hold, and she wasted no time ascending the rocky shore once again. The wet stones caught her skirt, but she paid the torn fabric no mind as she rushed forward. So far as she could be concerned, any damage that this costume should endure only served to rid her of this cursed role of being a frightened little princess in need of rescuing by some dashing prince. She'd made her choice and she would not change her mind, not now.

Her fingers seized the soft fabric of Erik's shirt, turning him back to face her with more force than she'd previously believed possible from her small and fragile hands. A fleeting moment allowed her to see his face and the emotions writ upon his features—confusion, anger, frustration. As she drew nearer, her actions feeling slow and heavy as though time abruptly chose to suspend itself so as to graciously allow her to savor this moment for all it was worth, another emotion slowly surfaced within his eyes—hope. Only a glimmer, an ember straining for life when it should have long since expired, so fragile that the slightest exhale might either extinguish it or restore life within it.

Without further explanation, Christine pressed her lips to his. The kiss was awkward, for he neither expected it nor knew how to respond. Yet still she offered her kiss freely and without reservation, letting uninhibited emotion rise within her and spill forth in her frenzied gestures. Her eyes were closed, each and every one of her senses devoted to sensation and nothing less while both hands came to cradle his face. The soft touches she'd previously bestowed upon his disfigurement now held far more conviction as she sought out every inch of him that she could possibly find.

The demand for air soon pressed upon her lungs, but she ignored it until the burning pressure within her chest proved too much to endure. The break from his lips was slow and reluctant, and already she felt her lips burning with the need for renewed contact. Anticipation rose within as she opened her eyes, seeking his with only some small fear of what she might find.

Erik was trembling against her hands, clearly torn between refusing her touch and reveling in its tenderness. Her passion had left him as breathless as herself; his chest heaved with shallow, erratic breaths that left his lips in warm exhales—so strange that his breath could hold such heat when his skin always held a distinct chill. All the same, her curiosity was set aside for the moment so she could relish his breath against her skin, savoring it even as it teased her with a mere hint of the fire within which he could engulf her, body and soul.

"Christine…" his voice shook, and she could see the flame of desire smoldering within his eyes. Her kiss had both shaken him and enflamed his passion, igniting the flame of desire that lived within the depths of his soul. God, how she longed for that desire to infect her and scald with his fire, all without care or regard for the consequences!

"Christine!" Raoul's hand clasped her shoulder, and she instantly drew away from the touch to stand closer to Erik—her fallen Angel. Her hand moved down between them to grasp his hand, fingers forcibly entwining with his and shivering with delight as he responded in kind. His hand nearly swallowed hers in such a fierce hold, and she savored the touch.

She could see the hurt in Raoul's eyes, and still there was a twinge of remorse within her. The kiss she'd once given him paled in comparison to that which she'd just given Erik—two different kisses for two different men. Had she possessed the ability to do so, she would have offered an apology for her betrayal. Yet she possessed no such words, perhaps simply because she could not apologize for being nothing less than herself. To lose herself in that kiss had been to shed a mask—a guise of innocence and virtue that has long ceased to exist. She felt free, standing there without any burdens or restrictions imposed upon her body or heart. And yet as she felt Erik's hand fiercely clutch hers, an ever present trepidation dared surface—perhaps she had simply provided the shackles with which Erik would bind her, for the way he held her hand was an honest assurance that he held no intentions of ever letting her go.

Undoubtedly, that was how Raoul saw it, and more was the pity that she didn't care.

"Christine…" he said again, shaking his head, "How can it be? How can you still fall under his spell when his monstrosity stands on display for us both? Has he robbed you of your sense as well as your virtue?"

She only blinked, again suppressing the urge to laugh aloud at the sheer absurdity of his words. Enchanting as Erik's voice was, it held no magical power to completely alter her very being. It only held the power to set her mind free of ignorance, but in the end it was her actions that truly set her free. Erik had no part to play in this decision save to stand as living proof of what the future could—and did—hold.

"I see no monstrosity here." Christine answered, her voice strong and proud as she stood with her angel. "I see no distortion or the ravaged features of a devil. I see only a man—a man who has inspired my voice and set my spirit free."

Raoul shook his head, still unwilling to accept truth when delusion was a much easier choice. "This is madness, Christine!" his hand went for her free hand, the one not yet within Erik's hold, "For you to so willingly offer yourself to him, there must be a spell upon you! How can you permit the hands of a bloodthirsty monster to touch you so shamelessly—and for you to return such a touch!" he tugged her forward, openly frustrated to find her body resistant. "For God's sake, Christine, think about what you're doing! Don't throw your life away and condemn yourself to be at his side until your dying day! Come with me now and forget this cursed nightmare!"

"I won't!" she declared, once again wrenching herself from his touch. Her heart thrummed frantically as her body and mind united to deliver her next words with all the conviction she could ever hope to possess. "I won't leave him again, Raoul—I love him!"

There could have been no way for her to predict how such three little words would impact two men. Well, perhaps Raoul's reaction was a bit more predictable—she anticipated his suspended anger, barely hidden beneath the initial shock; she already knew he would be disgraced to know the pretty princess would willingly choose her captor over her rescuer…to know that she would welcome the darkness and reject the light. And she knew he would be hurt, perhaps mildly devastated to know that his efforts to win her heart were completely in vain.

Yet still nothing compared to Erik's reaction, to the way she felt him buckle and break under the weight of her words. It was only a fortunate reflex that brought her arms around him, catching his weight as best she could before it crumpled to the unyielding rock below. He offered no words to explain himself, only clutched at her hands, her arms, and finally her dress as his knees met stone. The fabric strained under his fierce hold, and she felt if she released too harsh or too sudden a breath, the dress would fall in tatters.

Still, somehow…she didn't care.

His marred flesh came to rest upon the slope of her breast left exposed by the dress, his hands clutching her with unyielding desire and desperation. His chest rose and fell with the sharp draw of every breath, rhythmic pressure against her supportive frame that never yielded to the forceful manner in which he held her. When she should have been frightened by such an embrace, Christine reveled in it, forsaking her need to breathe for the visceral pleasure of his body against hers. When she should have been repulsed by the feel of his misshapen brow against her breast, her hands came to once again cradle him without regard for the Vicomte.

Her attention was only returned to her abandoned fiancée as he again called her name, his frustration more apparent now that it was mingled with disgust as he observed the indecency of such a display. "Christine, why do you not see his love comes with a price? Even the way he clutches you speaks of the chains with which he will enslave you!"

"It is not slavery if I participate with a willing mind and heart." Christine answered calmly as her eyes gleamed with resolve, "There is no price for his love that I will not pay in full."

His jaw tightened. "You will pay with your very soul for the love of a murderer, but you would have never consented to make such sacrifices for our love."

"Your love," she corrected him with a clipped tone, "would have demanded the ultimate sacrifice—my music. There is no place for my voice in your noble world, Raoul. To bear your name and wear your ring would have been to suffocate my spirit until it withered away, left to expire without anyone to mourn or grieve the loss save for me. My heart and soul are safe here, and I will never cease to believe it no matter what words you may offer to change my mind."

"Words?" he repeated furiously, "You seek words to change your mind! Why settle for words when you can have actions, Christine? Or is your love for him so great that you willingly dismiss the lives he has taken—only two that we know of, and undoubtedly there are more sins yet upon his soul! Is the touch of his blood-soaked hands so enticing that it robs you of the simple truth?"

"His sins are for God to judge, not you!" she answered, anger seeping into her voice as she drew Erik into a protective embrace as though it alone could shield him from such bitter words, "And those sins of which I hold personal knowledge…they do little for my heart in the way of regret. So perhaps in that regard…his sins are mine to share."

Raoul looked at her as though she were the incarnation of madness itself. "You damn yourself, Christine. Damn yourself to forever be the cursed bride of a devil. Do you honestly believe your love to hold such power that it will prevent his hands from breaking you apart, robbing you of every last breath and then relishing victory over your corpse?"

She did not expect the abrupt way in which Erik released her and stood, all in one fluid and flawless motion. Power and authority returned to him, and he stood once more the Opera Ghost, the infamous Phantom who demanded respect even from those who looked upon him with disgust and horror. He stood beside her, the dark angel always coming to her rescue. No matter how far she ran from him, no matter how deep the wound of her betrayal, still he would always return to call her back, and always she would return to him. Only this time, there would be no more running, no further search for the missing half of her soul. She had found herself in those scars, the imperfection of his body and soul that complimented and completed her physical perfection. There could never be light without dark, and in the darkness of his heart she had found it blossoming within herself. It had always been there, so carefully hidden away from the world solely out of her fears and trepidations, yet always brought to life by the power of his voice.

"You dare to question Christine's judgment, Vicomte," Erik hissed, eyes burning with the rage that both terrified and enthralled her down to the core, "Yet it is you who would be wise to better consider your own judgment. As I said to you once before, you presume much if you think I would ever bring harm to her."

"Pretty words from the mouth of a devil!" Raoul spat in return, "You make such sweet promises now, but I do not hesitate to foretell that each and every one of those promises will be broken in time. Each time she tests your rage, each time she does not play her part to perfection, each time she upsets your demonic fantasy, you will break a promise until you fully and completely break her! Refute my words if you dare, monster!"

Erik opened his mouth, but it was Christine's voice who spoke first. "That is enough!" she spoke with fury smoldering both on her tongue and in her eyes, "If I have condemned myself to die at his hands, then let that be my fate. But it was freely chosen and wholeheartedly accepted in spite of the accusations you would dare make to my face, questioning me as though I were a child! I have made my choice, and whether you will or will not accept it is your affair. But you will deal with your feelings on your own. Leave me now…and for your sake, please do not return."

"Christine—"

"Out, de Changy!" Erik commanded, and the shadows themselves seemed to tremble under the furious power of his voice, "I have endured your ridicule long enough, and should you continue to test my rage it will be your final act! Take what is left of your pride and leave us."

Her hand came to rest upon his chest, letting the erratic beat of his heart thrum against her fingertips. At once, she felt the raging temper subside with the simple feel of her touch, and he began to relax in her presence. A smile graced her lips, for her heart beat in time with his…steady music brought to life by the blood that flowed within their veins. It was a music that only they could ever hope to understand.

It was in anger that Raoul left her, forever burning the bridge between them in his furious stride. And she might have considered the regret for a little while longer if not for the smoldering gaze she now found staring into her blue eyes. Silence fell between them once again, words expressed solely through the steady connection held within their shared gaze.

Her hands lifted to his face once again, cradling him and desiring him all in one touch. The passion ignited by their earlier duet still lingered within her veins, and the simple conviction with which she had declared her love only stoked the fire. Her heart raced and trembled at their closeness, anticipation seeping in as she fully understood the implications of all she offered.

"You touch me so freely…" he whispered, hands coming to wrap around her wrists, torn between the sheer pleasure of her skin against his face and the looming distrust which threatened even now to disrupt such a precious moment, "Profess your love with such conviction…but what happens when my rage breaks your heart, Christine? What happens when you realize the error of your ways too late to save your life from my bloodstained hands?"

Finally, she gave way to her previous urge and laughed. She felt so weightless and free in her ridiculous joy, not even bothering to keep the smile from her lips. "Kindly do not adopt the same accusations as the Vicomte, lest I think him still in our midst." She shook her head and lifted herself up to kiss his brow, "I have made my choice under no magical persuasion or mystical trickery, and you know it as well as I. You simply fear to accept it…to hope."

His hold on her wrists relaxed as he brought trembling fingers to touch her slender ones and press them against his cheek. "Would I not be the fool to hope, Christine? Will I soon awaken and find this to be nothing more than a grand dream, wishing for you to be there beside me and instead condemned to hold nothing but the empty air around me?"

She shook her head with honest conviction, "Touch me, Erik…don't you feel me, ange? Can't you feel how real I am against your skin?"

He visibly trembled, a single tear passing down to catch against her palm. "Oh, Christine…so often you have seemed real in my dreams, offering devotion of which I could scarcely dream. How I wish this was much more than yet another contrived illusion, yet I dare not believe it. If I lose myself in this wonderful moment just to wake and find this nothing but a figment of my mind, it will utterly destroy me."

Silence fell heavy between them, and her fingers slowly drew away from his face. He did not bother to stop her, no doubt already envisioning this a devastating consequence of his hopes and dreams proving to be just that—fanciful longings for that which could never be.

It was the rustling of discarded fabric that abruptly brought his attention back to her, standing barely a foot from himself, and she could not quite stop her smile as he released a shuddering exhale at the vision before him. Never breaking the connection between their eyes, she silently continued to draw the layers of her costume away, dropping each piece away with a second thought. With each cloth that she peeled away, unseen weight lifted continuously from every part of her. Only when she stood before him, shivering slightly in her meager undergarments, did she become consciously aware of just how free she felt. In shedding her dress she had removed an entire skin, and with it every mask and guise that had ever covered her true spirit.

She was finally Christine—free from masks and roles and all other restraints. She was just free.

The unfortunate curse of modesty openly protested at her indecency, declaring that ladies did not so eagerly bare themselves like a shameless whore. Yet she could know little shame with those eyes upon her. There was such a fire there within gleaming depths—the flame of a desire which only he could offer her. And she wanted to burn…to burn and be consumed until nothing remained but her heart and soul to be treasured by her angel.

"I chose you, Erik," Christine whispered, her eyes never faltering from his as she extended her arms in open invitation, "Now choose me, mon amour."