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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 10
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- 12
Chapter 11: The Strange Farewells

A/N: Thank you so much for all of your reviews, they are extremely encouraging. I have to apologize in advance for the little mention of Erik in this chapter. Don’t worry; soon there will be more then enough of him for your reading pleasure!

Antoinette Giry’s home was modest to say the least. The area surrounding it was filled with the sounds of life; talking, laughter, and horse hooves. The Parisian streets were always alive, never sleeping or even drifting into comfortable silence. There were always shrieks, curses, and emphatic exclamations fluttering in the air, coming in through the thin walls and creating an air of either annoyance or amusement depending on the mood of the unwilling eavesdropper.

She took comfort in the bustle of everyday life. There was always excitement and drama outside of her plain beige walls. The shrill voices carried with them memories of a different life, one destroyed by events beyond the control of anyone, no matter how strong or powerful. No one was powerful enough to stand in the way of obsessive love, not even the one consumed by the fatal emotion. Especially not the one consumed.

Odd how such grave misfortune could come out of something that seemed so innocent and beautiful. To be touched in the darkest parts of ones withered heart was a gift, or she once thought it was. As it were, the gift quickly turned to something malicious and poisonous when the withered heart could not take the pain that accompanied the volatile longing. Such a deep misfortune was one that destroyed the heart of a tortured man. What was worse, his misfortune ruined the lives of many.

She still had motherly affection for that bruised and beaten boy, but she felt deep resentment for that bitter and broken man.

Antoinette stirred her tea thoughtfully. Long ago the heated steam rising from the china mug had disappeared, the pleasant heat no longer warming her chilled fingers. The liquid no longer seemed comforting, she pushed it away. It may have been a waste of time and sugar, but such trivial things required little concern.

Footsteps pounded the ceiling. It would seem that someone was walking around with their boots on upstairs. Probably Klaus, the young Swedish behemoth who lived upstairs with his tiny French wife Marie. He easily stood more a foot and half above her, and his shoulders were as wide as three of her standing side by side. They seemed a pleasant enough couple, and helpful people at that. They had helped her and Meg move in their belongings after the disaster. They offered condolences and asked countless questions about the rampant rumors. Everyone did. She and Meg had grown weary of answering the same questions over and over again. Next time someone asked her about the “Opera Ghost” she would surely scream. His story was mere entertainment for these people, gossipy fodder for good laughs and twisted tales.

A slight knock on the door woke her from her morbid thoughts. Pouring the tea into the washbasin, she walked to the door and opened it slightly.

“Madame Giry!” Christine stood in the doorway in a gorgeous blue muslin dress. Simple and practical, yet stunning. Wealth looked wonderful on her, she did not appear smug or snooty, but rather refined and radiant in the delicate fabric.

“Christine!” The two women embraced warmly once inside the room, the door shutting softly behind them. It had been so long since Christine had felt the warm and loving embrace of a familial nature. The touch of a woman was so different from that of a man. She felt like a child once more, wrapped in the maternal arms of her former guardian and friend. There was no lust or desire to quicken her heart, no sense of unsure affection, just the safe and compassionate love of another human being.

“Please, sit down.” Christine pulled out a chair and sat across from Madame Giry.

“How are you? How is Meg? Is she out?”

“I’m fine, as is Meg, and yes, she is out at the moment. She has gone to do some shopping, I expect her back soon.”

“I’ll have to wait until she comes then, I have not seen her since the wedding.” Ah yes, the wedding. It broke Antoinette’s heart to see someone as innocent as Christine receive such vicious scorn from haughty aristocrats on what should have been one of the happiest days of her life.

“Are you doing any shopping today?” Madame Giry asked.

“Yes, well, somewhat. I came here to see you; it is far too quiet in my house. Raoul has gone to Philippe’s townhouse for the day. I need to spend some time with friends, I cannot stay in a house with one person forever.” Not even the staff bothered to speak to her. She looked down at her hands and nervously shifted her body in the stiff wooden chair.

“No, loneliness rots the soul.” Antoinette did not realize the prophetic nature of her statement before it erupted from her mouth and caused the air to thicken with dark reflection. Both of them knew too well the consequences of solitude. Both them knew the man who showed them. Neither of them was willing to speak of him just yet.

“Yes, I suppose it does.” Christine watched as the stern ballet mistress began to boil water.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Yes.” Silence. Memories would not fade so easily, it would seem.

“How is married life?” Antoinette did not mean for the question to contain sexual implications, but it did. Christine giggled nervously and smiled childishly. Marriage was comforting and secure, but the bedroom promised little passion.

“Oh, it’s wonderful. I never thought, during all of the years of swimming in the sea and having picnics with Raoul that we would ever end up husband and wife.”

“Life will never fail to surprise you in strange and pleasant ways.” Or not so pleasant ways.

Christine needed to tell someone of her deal with the Phantom. The Phantom? Did he even have a name? She did not know his name! She was going to spend two weeks in a house with a man who kidnapped her, murdered in front of her, and lied and deceived her, and she did not even know his name! It would seem that just like this “Phantom,” time had slipped by and stolen her sanity as well.

“Madame, is it improper to spend time with a male friend while married?”

“Well, it depends how the time is spent. If a gentlemen were to accompany you to dinner or the theatre with other guests present, and see you off at your home afterwards, I see nothing wrong with a friendship.” What an odd question, she thought to herself.

“So it is proper to have gentlemen friends other then one's husband?” Yes, the Phantom would be her friend, a friend in need of company to help him heal his fatal wounds.

His touches were not those of a friend…
“Why, I suppose so. As long as one’s husband does not disapprove.” Antoinette looked up at the stormy brown eyes of her surrogate daughter. There was something in her voice that frightened her. A dangerous uncertainty.

“I have an old friend, you see. A man I have not seen in many months. He wants to spend some time with me while Raoul is in Scotland.”

“My dear, I would not trust a man who only wishes to visit you in the absence of your husband. He no doubt has wicked intentions.” Who could this man be? Christine had no close male acquaintances at the opera house. Surely she knew that any man, not matter how trustworthy he seemed, was to be avoided if he were to make such a bold suggestion as seeking her company when her husband was out of the country. What man could possibly make such a bold request, what man would dare compromise a noblewoman’s integrity? Was Christine dense enough to believe that this man, whoever he was, had honest intentions?

“He has no wicked intentions, he simply wants my company, and he does not get along well with Raoul.” Now Christine stared solemnly into her lap, refusing to meet the eyes of the woman she trusted most. Her heart thundered in her chest and she felt her lungs constrict with the truth that threatened to burst out of her. She needed to tell someone of her plight, but if her secret was uncovered she could no longer shield herself with false propriety, she would be exposed for her weaknesses and her stupidity. Not even the woman she considered a mother would defend her, no one would.

“Christine, who is this man?” No, it couldn’t be who she thought it was. He was gone; he no longer lived in Paris. He had told her himself that he would gone forever, far from the pain of the memories that haunted him. He nearly broke down her door with this vicious knocks that dark night several weeks ago. He had been frantic, telling her that he was so glad she was unhurt, but that he would never see her again, but that he loved her for all she had done for him, and he was sorry, so very, very sorry. She was sure the police would show up at any moment and take the wild fugitive away; he was so out of control with anguish

She had let him inside where he ranted and raved like a true lunatic. She was just happy he was alive. Despite her hatred for him, she still cared for him. A troublesome contradiction. He had said that he would find Christine and have her back with him, but he was so disoriented and drunk off of whisky and depression that she dismissed his crazed ravings. He was disheveled and confused, his threats were empty. They had to be. He left that night, disappearing into the darkness to which he had grown so accustomed with barely a sound. The fact that no neighbors ran to her door asking who the drunken fool was made her believe that he must truly be a ghost.

“You know him, Madame, I will tell you no more then that.” Her nearly stopped. Her china cup rattled, her hand had begun to shake.

“My child, please tell me what trouble has befallen you!” She grasped Christine’s cold hands in her own. They seemed lifeless.

“I have to spend two weeks with him, I have to. He promises he will leave me alone if I do. I have to do this, please, please understand.” Tears began to stream down her cheeks, reddening the radiant pale skin.

“You do not have to do anything, he cannot make you do this!” Disgust swept over Antoinette. Who did he think he was? She had worried when he first began to take a shine to Christine, but she figured it was simply a boyish crush. When it began to intensify she feared that he might hurt Christine in the way that a man can hurt a woman without raising his hand to her. Surely he had manly urges; surely he longed to relieve himself. Yet, his attraction to her seemed deep, soulful. She began to hope that they would come together and she would love him despite his face. They were two souls who lived with such loss and loneliness; they could have saved one another.

Did he now intend to punish Christine for rightfully refusing him? Was he going to force her to lie with him to satiate his needs and humiliate her? Regardless of his superior size and strength, if he were standing before her right now she would slap those evil thoughts right out of him.

“I know that he should not be doing this, but he is. I have agreed to spend time with him, as his friend and companion in Raoul’s absence. He has promised not to touch me in any way.”

“Why would you ever agree to this?” Something was certainly wrong with this girl!

“Because if I do this he will leave Raoul and I alone. Raoul will never know about this.”

“When a wife hides her ‘friendship’ with a man from her husband it is because she feels as though there is something that must be hidden, something not even she is willing to admit is there, not even to herself.”

“You know how Raoul would feel about this. You know of the past. I have nothing to hide in regards to my faithfulness to my husband.”

“Sometimes, Christine, an affair of the mind is just as destructive as an affair of the body.”

“I am doing this for Raoul!” Her anger began to build now, what was Madame Giry accusing her of?

“Do not lie to yourself! You could call the police, move back to England, or simply outright refuse his ridiculous offer! Yet you do not, you are not doing this to save Raoul, or keep peace, you do this because you want to.”

“I have to.” The tears flowed freely now; her slight body began to tremble again. She did this because she was being forced to, because it was the only way to free herself from him. She did this because she loved Raoul.

“No, my dear, you do not. You do this because you desire him.” Christine’s mouth dropped open, her tears turning from those of sadness to those of indignation.

“I desire only my husband!” She stood up then, retrieving her cloak and wrapping it around her shaking body.

“We saw you on stage that night. Your desire was plain and obvious. If you go to him you will never escape him.”

“I am not in love with him, Madame Giry.” She kept her back turned, away from the honest eyes of her former guardian.

“There are different kinds of love, my dear. What you feel may not be love, certainly you do not harbor romantic fantasies for him. What you feel is desire for him, desire for his body and his mind. You are not so different, you and he.”

“I will not betray my husband!” She wiped her face hurriedly, sniffing back tears as she did so.

“Sweet child, you already have.” Christine looked back at her, her eyes filled with heart wrenching sadness.

“Please, tell everyone that I am staying with you for the two weeks, should they ask.”

“I do not like being dishonest.”

“Please.” Her plea was so broken, so desperate.

“I will protect you, but I beg of you, please do not let him take you.”

“He promised not to touch me, I made him promise.”

“I do not mean physically, I am talking about your spirit.”

“My spirit belongs to myself, and I share it with my husband, no one else.” With that she walked from the room, gently closing the door behind her. She was not angry with Madame Giry. No, she was frightened by her words.

Antoinette watched the door close; the sound of it sealing shut would forever be embedded in her conscience. She should go to Raoul, but somehow she not bring herself to betray the girl she mothered and the boy she saved all those years ago.

The door to the apartment opened softly and Meg came into the room, her arms filled with two large bags and a small parcel under her arm.

“Maman, you received a letter!” Meg placed the heavy bags on the table and pushed loose strands of golden blonde hair out of her face.

“Thank you.” She took the letter and stared at the shapeless red wax seal. Ripping open the envelope she stared at the familiar childish script. The lopsided handwriting that had plagued so many. The letter was direct, it simply asked that she keep he and Christine’s “secret” safe. Much to her disdain, she knew that she would do just that.

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Raoul looked up at Christine as she pressed herself into him. This was the third time they had made love; it was filled with an awkwardness that was achingly endearing. She moved to lie beside him, resting her hand upon his chest and nestling her head on his shoulder.

“You know I love you so much.” She whispered as she pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek.

“I love you too.”

“No Raoul, I love you so much it hurts.”

“Love should not be painful, Lotte.”

“Oh, but it is. Every second of everyday it hurts, but I would never trade it for the world.” Love was indeed about pain.

“Well, the pain is worth the love, is it not?”

“Yes, of course it is.” Did all couples lie together and speak of love so freely? She wondered if they did, it would be a shame if they did not.

“I’ll bring you something back from Scotland.”

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“Of course I do, I would be a terrible beast of a husband if I did not. Deep down, you would never forgive me if I returned home empty handed. You would think that I did not think of on you on my travels, and I will be thinking of you constantly.” He wrapped her in his arms, enjoying the feel of the rise and fall of her chest against his.

“You know that isn’t true.”

“Regardless, I will bring you home a most magnificent surprise!”

“Raoul?”

“Yes?”

“You know that I really do love you, right?” She seemed forlorn, troubled almost. It must be common for young wives to worry about their husbands when they left them for the first time.

“Christine, I shall only be gone two weeks!” He chuckled boyishly.

“It will be the longest fortnight of all time.”

“Before you know it, I shall be back baring gifts and we can talk for hours and hours in this very bed.”

“Yes. I would like that.”

As they drifted into sleep, Christine wondered if his return would truly be as blissful as both wanted it to be.

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“You need to be careful with me, I am an old man.” Erik rolled onto his back, his hands behind his head, a sly grin of satisfaction causing his lips to turn upwards in a sensuous smirk.

“I am older than you.” Sofia wrapped the cotton sheet around herself as she stood to retrieve her clothing. This would be her last night with Erik for a while, his lover was coming soon. This disappointed her; she had come to like the feeling of a warm body next to her. Yet the brooding stranger had a past with this woman, a dark one that she dared not intrude on. She felt such a decision would be unwise.

“You do not look old.” She didn’t, she had the energy of a woman half her age.

“I am 38 years old.” She smiled at him and threw the sheet at his naked body, he caught and let it rest upon his chest and upper-thighs.

“You are older than me.” He had spent three rapturous nights engaged in coital tutelage. He needed the tiresome training, he needed the release. Yet whenever he looked at the body beneath him he could not help but envision Christine with her nude skin soaked in sweat and her dark curls spread out over the pillow. Moaning out his name in that angelic voice. Soon enough, that would happen. He hoped. He prayed.

“How old are you?”

“I am 35.” At least he thought so, he stopped counting years ago, age was not important when there was no one with whom to celebrate birthdays. Either way, he was roughly accurate.

“I am a devilish sinner, taking a younger lover!” She leaned down and kissed him, a rough, wet kiss.

“Indeed.” Don Juan had many lovers, both young and old. Yet he never found love. He never knew someone like Christine, an angel who could tame even the wildest of hearts.

Sofia stepped out and went to her waiting mare, ready to ride back home. Her expertise had awakened in him a desire he never thought possible. Armed with the skills of a decent lover, he would embellish upon he and Christine’s lustful attraction and make her succumb to him. She would scream and sweat and move wildly beneath him, he would make love to her body the same way he would to her spirit and soul. He would make her admit that she wanted him, that she dreamed of him, breathed for him, longed for him. She would beg him to touch her, and he would, awakening in her sensations that she only felt in her dreams.

Please, please let her want me as I want her.
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Black Angels