A/N: I want to thank everyone who originally read/reviewed/favourited/followed this and a special thanks to PartyPenguina3, who was my beta for the majority of the original chapters, and to AliceHeart247, who was my beta for the revised chapters!

Summary: There was no kiss that night below the Opéra, only a binding promise between two broken souls. Christine chose to spend a lifetime with Erik and now must get used to living with her confinement underground. Will she find that true beauty lies within and that love can be found in the darkest of places or will she find herself slipping deeper into the shadows of his domain? Leroux/Kay based.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything to do with 'The Phantom of the Opera'.

There was something highly unpleasant about her awakening.

Plagued by a darkness that had consumed her, Christine had dreamt a fiery penance that night. An array of twisted images from which she thought there was no escape. Fire and ash had filled her mind, an angry explosion of guilt and self-deprecation, and she had felt as though she was being torn from the inside. As though two shadows fought for the belittled parts of her.

A rawness now filled her throat after hours spent sobbing and her eyes throbbed from dried tears, yet she was still thankful for the unpleasant air which hit her face in a cold wash of reality.

Although her body ached in protest as she began to move about on the bed, she stretched her fingers out in front of her, the horrid crack of bones reaching her ears soon afterwards. It was then that she peered down and saw that she still wore her stained costume from the previous evening. A violent shudder ran through her at the sight of it. Her hands groped and prodded the dress with revulsion and found that the colourful fabric, which had seemed so tempting in the glow of footlights, now disgusted her. All of it disgusted her—the part she had played in her own deception.

Nothing would have pleased her more than to rid herself of the reminder of that betrayal, to tear away those clothed bonds from her flesh and burn them. She would laugh and then perhaps she would be able to forget—but forget she could not. The opera had merely been a prelude for the night's true performance and all agreed that she had played her role quite admirably. She had been the demure little soubrette, whose voice had risen in accumulation and in warning. It was true, she had tried to warn off the intruders with their guns poised to kill. She had tried to warn off the man, whose heart their barrels sought. But neither had listened and he had come to her.

Her voice had been an irresistible draw for him and she too would have followed his voice without question. But that sweet interlude of reverie had passed her by and she had been quick to learn of its trickery. It was the voice she had once thought to have belonged to an angel. But reality had soon caught up with her, the foolish dreamer that she was, and had shaken her from that fantasy.

She had long since known of its less than heavenly origins...

"Christine," the mortal's voice had cried. "I love you!"

He had wept then and her heart had wept with him.

"I would fall to my knees before you, rip out my heart and offer it to you on a platter if I thought that you could love me."

And they had wept together, both bewildered by his confession.

"Stay with me," he had murmured so softly. "Stay and they shall all be set free. It is all I ask. Stay and be my wife."

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Christine attempted to stand, the cold piercing her feet as they made contact with the ground. Her interest was piqued not by her surroundings, but by a sound that had begun to drift around the chamber, dancing on the air and tingling at her ears. It was a melody floating across the strings of a Stradivarius. The music breathed her in and compelled her to follow it, to find the instrument and its master. Christine could not deny her soul's yearnings and so she rose, walking towards the door to open it. Her fingers parted the curtains that shielded the threshold from view and she cautiously peered through the gap.

There, in the middle of the room, stood the creator of that wondrous music and the invader of her dreams. The fallen angel.

Christine's gaze fell upon those long fingers as they flew across the strings of the violin. She knew she would always be in awe over his ability to wield music as though it were an animal on a leash, wild but tamed. But still she feared the power behind that icy grip and how easily she lost herself to the notes and phrases that he formed.

With his back to her and his eyes closed, he did not even sense her slow approach. Her entire presence in his home, in fact, was unknown to him. Believing that she had run off with her lover, he was now helpless as to what to do. In despair, he had turned to music, for time and time again it had proved to be the one constant thing in his dreary life. He had hoped that it would help to drown out the last remnants of Christine's voice that still hissed and teased and toyed in his memory. She must despise me, he thought, and rightly so. His actions had been those of a fool, a fool who had thought to have understood love. But how wrong he had been. The words of acceptance that had fallen from his beloved's mouth, her consent to be his wife, her sacrifice... it had all shattered what little dignity he had left and he had finally realised what it was to love another. That was why he had released her. That was why he had pushed his chance of false happiness away.

Standing in the sparse room, he now played his requiem, caring very little when the strings left cruel indents on the pads of his fingers.

"Erik?"

The violin let out a deafening screech upon hearing that voice again and after lowering the instrument to his side, he remained perfectly still.

"I thought you had left," he eventually managed to whisper, his heart thudding manically as he waited impatiently to her the siren speak once more.

Christine's eyes flickered between him and the open door to her bedchamber that tempted her into a speedy retreat. She refused. "No, I did not leave. I would not do that to you."

Grunting, Erik placed his violin back in the case atop the piano lid and readied himself as he listened to her footsteps crossing the floor towards him.

Christine froze as he turned around—the mask on his face was intrusive, black and garish, and it stared at her in all its lifeless glory. Although already sickly in appearance, she noted how much Erik had worsened overnight. His skin was an abnormal shade of white, almost grey at some angles, his lips unnaturally thin, and his eyes, being of the purest black, appeared merely as glints behind the mask.

"Did I wake you?" he asked finally, silently probing for answers.

"No," she answered.

Taking careful steps towards her, as if one false move would startle her and she would flee, Erik regarded her with curiosity. "Why are you here?"

Christine fiddled with the ring on her finger, inwardly wincing as it dug into her skin before placing her hands behind her back. "I made a promise."

His eyes closed as a memory flooded his mind in painful flashes. Tearful eyes, shaky fingertips holding a ring and a woman who showed him kindness even as her lover battled against torturous heat. "I released you from that promise."

"And yet I am still here," she murmured, looking at him with a blank expression. In fact, the more Erik studied her, the more he realised just how passively she was behaving. Whoever stood before him now was not the same woman who had bargained and defended the night before.

Christine, meanwhile, could now not stop her eyes from drifting towards the four steps that lead up to a bolted door. But as she looked at Erik and noted the way he shied away from her gaze, the weakness in his voice, it only made her pity him more. And pity him, she did. She even believed that she had cared for him once. Perhaps. But how could she think of that when she doted upon another man?

"Raoul."

Her hand flew over her mouth as soon as the name had left her lips, but it was too late. The word had already cut across Erik's chest like a knife, wounding his heart and bleeding it of its charity.

"You dare to speak his name?" he seethed, letting his anger take over as he glared at her, hands fisted at his sides.

The only thought that Christine could process at that moment was to run. She wanted to leave this place, wanted to run back to her sweet Raoul. She wanted him to hold her in his strong arms and comfort her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. But that was not possible. It was not to be. Frightened, Christine's gaze swiftly landed on the door again. It was so close and yet, with Erik between her and it, her chances of escaping were extremely slim.

"Why?" he bellowed suddenly, making her jump.

"I did not mean to say it," she squeaked, her attention snapping back to him.

"Are all women the same?" he pressed, his want for understanding driving his feet to move and his shoes to scuff along the ground. "You feed on the powerful until they are mere weaklings! You drain them and make them believe your foul and false words until they are completely at your mercy." His mouth hung open in pained disbelief as he closed the remaining space between them. "You have drained me by making me believe you," he whispered.

Affronted at how easily he had spat these accusations at her, she stared up at him defiantly. "I have done no such thing, Erik."

His eyes narrowed menacingly as he towered over her form. "Your words are poison to me."

"You cannot mean that, surely," she said, not knowing which of them she was trying to convince more.

"Why did you speak his name?" he repeated. "You promised to stay with me and all you can think about is returning to him." Her silence only fuelled his brewing anger. "Do you deny it?"

"I do not deny it," she began in a melancholy tone, knowing that he would be able to tell if she was lying. "It is true, I was thinking about him. But whatever you may believe, I do not intend on returning to him, not when I have promised you my hand."

"But you were thinking of him?"

She nodded but her passive nature was now fading and in its place burned a growing vindication. "Pray, tell me, Erik," she hissed. "Why should I not think of him? Am I wrong to do so?"

Her words taunted him, challenged him to step out of line and though he found her spiteful, a small part of him wished for that spark within her to ignite and take over. The woman from last night had returned and here she was, accusative in all her splendour, cheeks flushed and eyes dark. His pride be damned! Let her yell at him, let her exude that suppressed but spirited fire at him!

While he did not want conflict and did not truly wish to argue with her, his contradictory comments seemed to blow on the embers of her soul, setting her alight with newfound energy and strength. A smile crept slowly onto his face as he boldly began their game. "Perhaps you should be the one to tell me," he spoke smoothly, his words a subtle snarl. "After all, you are the woman who pines after another man whilst she is betrothed to another."

His remark had the desired effect for she soon released a short exasperated groan. "You make it impossible for me to talk to you!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms up in vexation. "I cannot believe you would say something like that to me. Can you not understand how I must be feeling?"

"Oh, I am sure you are feeling nothing but contempt."

"If that is what you think then..." Her words gave way to her frustration and she turned her back on him, not wanting to meet his eyes. It was as if all her anger had ebbed away with a single exhale of breath. "I... I miss him, Erik. What you did to him was inexcusable and I will never forgive you. I want you to know that. But, I also want you to know that I intend to stay. Of course I was thinking of Raoul, and I will continue to do so, but how can I not? And not just him, Erik; I will think of others, too. I... I did not even get to say my farewells. Perhaps if I could just venture above ground for a little while..."

A grimace had reached Erik's face as he listened to her sad words and he did not fail to miss how her glorious voice had trembled in devotion at the mention of her lover. He despised himself for causing her grief, but what he despised more was the hopeless realisation that she would never grieve for him in that way, nor would her voice ever break at the prospect of losing him. Helpless, his hands slowly began to clench once more as he spat out a viscous, "No."

"But I have a right!" she protested instantly, whirling back around. "You cannot bar me from my friends and relatives and you certainly cannot force me into a life of darkness forever! I want to do this, Erik. I need to do this."

"No!"

Like a spectre, he moved quickly, his shoes barely making a sound as he glided over to Christine's retreating form. Her legs had not carried her very far before a skeletal hand had reached out and grabbed her, sending her tumbling back against a hard rippling of cotton and silk. Although she was thoroughly startled, she did not struggle, not even when Erik raised his hands to her shoulders, holding her tightly, his fingertips never straying past the thick cloth which covered her skin.

Erik fought to keep from shaking against her, his breath raspy and strained as he brought his masked face down to her ear. "You are mine," he whispered, and while his actions were threaded with a form of angry possessiveness, his words were almost despairing. "I will not let you leave me!" he cried. "You will not slip through my fingers... not again." Hs grips on her loosened then and he lifted his hands, leaving them to hover over her shoulders. "I would not dream of any other companion in the world but you, Christine."

Now free from his clutch, she remained rooted to the spot, twisting her head around instead to look into his eyes as though she were looking into his soul. Her deepest wish was to know him, this enigma of a man, to understand him and the reasons behind his actions. He fascinated as much as he beguiled her and she gazed at the contrasts of his face; the softness of his eyes hidden behind the glaring black of his mask, and his pale mouth and quivering chin.

Hesitantly, she raised a hand to one of his covered cheeks, splaying her fingers over the shapely indents and watched as Erik closed his eyes and breathed in her light touch. Curiously, she gently stroked the mask, both disgusted and intrigued at how he leaned into her touch, as easily and intently as though it were his own skin.

Releasing a long exhale, she finally lowered her hand and stepped away from him, returning to her bedchamber without another word.

What little intimacy she had shared with Erik, she had found to be uncomfortable. He was so very unpredictable, not at all like Raoul. And upon reflection, she did most certainly did not regret saying his name, but oh, how she loathed the way Erik had reacted upon hearing it.

The more she thought of poor Raoul, the more she seemed to miss him. She longed to feel the softness of his hair again, the warmth of his eyes, the way his arms felt when he held her protectively, shielding her from the large and dreadful world.

But that was all at an end now, she thought. She had chosen to be Erik's living wife, but she had not thought about what it had meant to be a bride... to be Erik's bride. She had not thought that she would spend the remainder of her days confined to the darkness with him. This man. This liar. He had once deceived her into thinking he was an angel and she had followed him, never caring about the consequences. But she had found out the truth about the world. She had learnt of its cruelties and of her own naivety.

Christine had grown up believing in fairy tales and although she was a young woman when they had met, she had still believed that Erik was just another fairy tale—a living legend. How foolish she must have seemed! Two years had passed since their first meeting and here she sat, in her mentor's home, shaking like the little girl she always knew she was on the inside.

Surveying the walls of her prison, she fought the urge to grab the pillow on the bed and scream into it until she exhausted herself. Candlelight was scarce in her chamber, the drapes around her bed were as dark as they were gloomy and she had no idea what time it was. How could one live like this?

In a flash she had buried her face into her hands, letting out woeful cries. How she missed Raoul and Mamma Valérius and Meg! Oh, her dear friends! What would they think of her now? What would they be told of her plight?

A series of sharp knocks at the door pulled her from her thoughts, but she did not move to answer it; she only wanted to be left alone. It was her want for his persistent knocking to cease that finally swayed her, however, and she rose from the bed as one would from the grave, walking over to the door to open it.

And there he was, her corpse-like husband to be, holding back one curtain in his hand as he hunched over himself. As her feet came into view, he slowly lifted his head and she tried her hardest to appear strong in his eyes, but it did not fool him for one moment. His stance immediately changed as he witnessed her distress, her red eyes, her wet cheeks. His posture slipped and his knees bent, and Christine stared as he dropped to the floor, suppressing the want to step away from him, for there were those pitiful eyes again, staring longingly up at her.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, his head bowed as he grabbed the hem of her dress and brought it to his face. "Erik is so sorry," he sobbed into the cloth. "He has upset you. Forgive him. Oh, forgive him, please!"

As shocked as she was by his grovelling, she began to feel a burning desire to take him in her arms, to gently rock him back and forth, to tell him that all was forgiven. But she could not bring herself to show this type of affection towards him, not with Raoul still branding himself onto her mind.

Erik gazed at her brokenly, studying her unruly appearance and mumbling apologies before slowly rising and bowing to her. She watched him walk away from her and in the direction of the pianoforte.

Christine staggered back into her room, bewildered by his behaviour, and quietly closed the door behind her. She wrapped her arms around herself, knowing that it would be the only comfort that she would accept at the present, as she pressed her back to the wooden frame and slid down to the ground. Her tears began to fall again and she wept for herself and for Erik as an exquisite melody invaded her room and her senses.

An hour or so later, Erik's playing halted and she heard the unmistakable sound of his footsteps nearing her door. She tensed, not knowing what to expect, but as she listened she soon heard his footsteps pause before fading into a soft silence. Sniffing, she ran her fingers over her cheeks and turned to creak open the door.

Her eyes once again grew misty at what she saw. On the ground lay a beautiful, blood-red rose. She picked it up and raised it to her lips and nose, allowing the intoxicating aroma to afflict her already heightened sense. And as she sat in the doorway, caressing the petals of his frail apology and listening to that unearthly music, she breathed in a sad sigh. If this was to be her awakening, then so be it. She only prayed that she had enough strength for both of them to continue onwards.