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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
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Chapter 24: Dishonesty be the Key to Salvation?

A/N: Whew, it’s been awhile! I’ve been busy in NYC and with preparing to go back to school and whatnot, not that that’s an excuse! I saw Hugh on stage, he was fantastic! Now that school has begun I’ll write whenever I can, so don’t give up on me, fair readers! Thanks for all of your thoughtful reviews thus far, I appreciate them!

This chapter might be a little bit shorter because this story is going to start transitioning into the 1874 aspect permanently. Consider this section the denouement of the blissful sexual awakening, but note that the story is still far from over, and drama beyond your imagination is on the way!

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One night more. It began as one day more, but days never lasted long. Nor did nights, for that matter. The waking hours slipped away rapidly, the sun falling lower and lower in the sky until the bright blue faded to a dull orange. It was not an entirely unpleasant sight, nay; painters had been inspired by the loveliness of the consistency of nature for centuries. Young lovers watched the sky change while basking in the thrill of innocent romance.

Yet the thief or murderer awaiting their trial prayed for the days to lengthen, as night brought their fears nearer. The fear of mockery, punishment, humiliation, and the mystery of death would slip closer as the sky blackened, leaving them along with their disquieting thoughts in the silence of darkness. Erik had been both thief and murderer, but never had he truly cherished his days as a free man. He felt quite certain that he would not be resigned to dwelling in the gallows for his crimes; he was, proudly, smarter than the average criminal.

At his most perversely narcissistic, he never even considered himself a criminal. A dangerous man certainly, but not something so common, so unimportant and unimpressive as a run of the mill lawbreaker.

A criminal was no more than a wayward human being. He was barely human, and that gave him a sense of pride.

It also made him lonely and bitter, but he had never truly been able to admit that to himself. To admit to loneliness was to admit to weakness. He wanted to love the life he had chosen. He wanted to love the darkness, the seclusion, the fearful obedience he incited, and the music he made for ears none other then his own.

He wanted nothing more than to be content with what he had created.

Yet, whenever he allowed his eyes wander across his cramped subterranean kingdom, he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

On some days he felt like a public hanging would breathe life into his cold, untouched body, even if it were he who was being hanged. At least he could breathe in some fresh air and wish the world a fond ‘fuck you’ before falling to his death before their bloodthirsty, vengeance-hungry eyes.

Now, however, he felt as though his life was unrecognizable. He did not know the man who sat silently by the window, watching the shadows of the trees play across the night-darkened grass.

He wished for the hours to turn backwards so that he could live one more day. He was not dying come the morning; at least not in a physical sense. Metaphorically, however, he had eaten his last meal and slept his last night at peace. Well, somewhat at peace.

Tomorrow that light at the end of his proverbial tunnel was going to fade out completely, and he would be rummaging through the darkness like blind man, tripping, falling, reaching, and clutching at nothing.

He hated to be ruled by the decisions of others.

He swore never to be governed by the actions of another.

Unfortunately, his personal creed was about to be made useless. He was falling apart with the knowledge that Christine would be going home tomorrow. Well, perhaps ‘home’ was not the word he would use to describe the building to which she would be returning. She was going back to a house that held a silent staff, fine linens, feminine furnishings, and a boy who was almost too perfect to live. A boy ho he had let live, actually.

No, that was not her home. It was where she placed her body and her possessions, but her home was with him. He had known it from the moment he saw her, he had known it even before he realized he knew.

Yet home or no home, emotional connotations aside, she was leaving him. Tomorrow.

In just a few hours, actually.

He could most certainly stop her if he tried, but he wouldn’t. He could plead his case convincingly enough, pulling at her heart with pleas for compassion, but he would not do that either. He could follow her, blackmail her, threaten her…

But no, he would not make her hate him again. That would be too much to bear, and he had bared more than was necessary, he was sure.

Like a murderer pleading for a few hours more to reflect upon his or her life on the great mysterious planet, he wanted just a few hours more to hold the woman who accepted him in his arms and feel complete.

A man with a wife and a home was complete. A man with money was even better. He had wealth, but he had no woman, and therefore he had no home. Now he possessed all three, and the knowledge that they could not be his forever filled him with a sense of heart-breaking dread and pitiful sadness. He had no desire to rage at her for leaving him; he really had no energy for anger. He simply wanted to sink into the floor and perish. He had everything he wanted, and it was ripped away from him so soon.

He supposed that this was the point in the story where he begged for God to help him, to explain why he was so cursed. Erik did not believe in God, so that dramatic vision was not about to come true.

It was 3:30 in the morning. He hadn’t slept at all.

He wanted her to go, to make it final that these two weeks had come to a conclusion and their bargain had been fulfilled. He wanted the closing of the door to symbolize the end of he and Christine, just as the oars weaving through the icy waters of his lair said ‘goodbye’ more eloquently than words ever could.

And he wanted her to stay, to keep the peace within his soul alive. He wanted her to tell him that she loved him, and he wanted that love to speak for itself in her staunch refusal to leave his side. He wanted to write music again, to hear her powerful, perfect voice saying the words that he always felt but never say in words.

He had absolutely no idea what he wanted really; his mind was assaulted with justifications, logical musings, emotional longing, and desperation. He needed her, yet love was poisonous.

It ravaged the soul while giving it life.

Logically, he would certainly be better off avoiding poisons.

Yet the poison had an antidote, and that was the calming voice and affectionate hand of the lover. Despite the dangers of love, the one returning the volatile emotion often tamed the beast within the other.

A poetic musing. A good one too, if he did say so himself. It was sufficiently lyrical and expressive, and also very true.

He knew he should learn to let go.

But he had never truly let go before, and he certainly couldn’t do it now. It was a brave and noble thing to give one the freedom to be happy at a personal cost. Yet he was neither brave nor noble now.

Would she be happier with her husband?

No.

Would she be happier with him?

Yes.

He knew what he was capable of, but then again, so did she. She did not seem to mind his past, nor the man that he was trying hard to become. Yet, perhaps she was blinded by her foray into passion, and was thus willing to lay aside her convictions and better judgment for the thrill of experiencing what was dangerous and unknown. Did not all humans hunger for a taste of the forbidden? Does the desire to embark on a mission of dark self-discovery not excite even the most docile of minds?

He gasped in horror at the dark, yet plausible cynicism of his thoughts.

Was this real? Or was this simply the acting out of a fantasy? He played the black knight, a traitor to his kingdom and a sneering, arrogant adversary to every man he encountered.

She played the well-to-do heroine, living life in such a way as to appear always charming and inoffensive. Obedient, meek, good-willed, and kind-hearted. He, in turn, preyed upon her innocence and lured her into a world of forbidden adventure. She loved absolutely every minute of it; he knew this with little doubt in his mind. He made her feel sinfully dangerous, a woman with secret longings and a secret life.
He stole her away from a life of uneventful honesty and chastity. Every child loves their honest, faithful, devout, and sexless mother. Yet, in the end that woman is forgotten. Her unyielding obedience to her husband, family, society, and religion no longer matter when her great grandchildren forget that she ever lived.

People remember the women who do something out of the ordinary, who defy the rules that bind them to their homes and surnames, who deal with matters thought to be far beyond the meager strength of a maidenly lady.

He had brought out the beast who had been living in Christine all of her life, and she was now that extraordinary woman who would be judged more out of envy than out of disdain, even if those who judged never admitted their grievance.

Was she using him to release something inside of her?

Did he even mind?

Was he so desperate for the touch of her hand an the feel of her lips upon his that he would excuse her morbid curiosity and accept it as true, undisguised, raw, naked love?

Was he simply arguing against himself in circles to avoid dealing with the pain of her imminent departure?

Had he truly grown so much in two weeks as to realize the motivation behind his thoughts? His newfound wisdom was absolutely terrifying.

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Everything felt the same. The sheets were warm and soft, the mattress deep and sunken, and the pillows smooth against her cheek. The dark colours remained the same, as did the heavy velvet coverlet that enveloped her body so warmly.
Today was different.

Dreadfully so.

They had come so far, and now the journey seemed to end without due climax. They had climbed mountains, battled blizzards and torrential rains, and swam across violent oceans to reach this precipice, this untouched island of contentment. For all of the blood and tears shed, they had finally reached a point where they could forget the past and dig their heels into the forgiving earth of the present.

It was wrong, it was wrong in ways that she could not even begin to imagine. Yet, in those beautiful moments where they would speak freely and touch one another intimately, all of the shame and terror seemed to fade away. Sometimes she could have sworn that it never truly existed at all.

The dawning of a new day ripped away the rose-coloured glow that had masked the sordidness of their affair with sublime happiness and satisfaction. They were not normal lovers, and they were not living out their romance with the blessing of those who loved her.

They were liars, manipulators, and irresponsible people. She, as a newly anointed lady of refinement, would be held solely responsible for sinning against the social order that bound her.

Christine wrapped the sheet tightly around her body and walked to the dark, still man staring out the window.

He made no move to acknowledge her even when she snaked one arm around his waist and buried her face between his shoulder blades.

He sighed deeply.

She was with him, but the temporary nature of their embrace made him wish he could push her away now and get on with what needed to be done in time. Perhaps the earlier he distanced himself from her; the easier it would be to know what she wasn’t coming back.

He didn’t push her away. He couldn’t. He hadn’t the strength nor the will to do it. He felt weak, as weak as he had the night that she left him to dwell upon his own cruelties as she rowed ashore with the man who promised her a small modicum of happiness.

At least then he saw her flight as a reasonable one. Now he could see no real reason for her to return to a dissatisfying, painfully average life after showing her the power of what one may call ‘unconventional love.’ He felt abandoned. Abandoned because fate did not see fit to grant him the willing presence of another in his lonely existence.

He hated pitying himself, but sometimes pity was easiest to stomach.

“When are you leaving?” His tone was clipped as he fought down the dreaded lump in his throat that had been strangling him for hours.

“Don’t.” Her hand ran lightly up his back, her fingers smoothing the material of his shirt.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t speak as though you are seeing me off to the market.”

He would have much preferred her to be simply heading to the market.

“How else should I speak? There is not much to say.”

“I know it hurts,” she moved to face him, cupping his face in her hands tenderly, “but it will only hurt more if we stay formal and silent. You are making it feel like…you are making it feel as though nothing happened.”

“Hmm.”

“So much has happened, Erik.”

“I concur,” he laughed shortly.

“Too much has happened to just move along so silently, it isn’t right…”

“No, noting we do is right, Christine. It isn’t now, nor shall it ever be…”

“But…”

“I, however, care nothing for what is right or wrong, nor will I ever…”

“Yes, but…” She stammered slightly, her hands coming down to wrap the blanket more tightly around her body.

“Therefore, in my twisted view of what is right and what is wrong, it seems right for you to stay and continue to enjoy this hedonistic affair that brings you such satisfaction…”

She gasped, “You make it sound so…so…so lewd!”

He smirked slyly, “Indeed. If you leave, you will be returning to something you do not love out of duty and propriety, which is utterly, mind-numbingly, inconceivably unwise, and you will suffer for it. But I wont stop you.”

She paused for a moment before stalking over to the bed and flopping onto the side of it. The room seemed to be growing smaller and smaller with each passing moment. He was right, yet he was wrong. To fulfill her position as a wife was necessary, therefore it was good. Perhaps it was not good for her, or Erik for that matter, but it was good for the world as a whole. Wasn’t it? It was good for her soul, as the powers that be always take pity on the soul that suffers for the greater good! Don’t they?

Who was she most trying to fool? She recited what was right and good in her mind over and over, but it all seemed meaningless.

Here and now was far from perfect, but meaningless it was not.

“Erik,” she began, “I think that we are all meant to suffer.”

“You tell me nothing new.”

“Please, see me home?”

He shuddered at her use of the word ‘home.’

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The ride to the de Changy estate was rode in absolute silence. There were thousands of words, questions, and pleas floating about in the air, but neither he nor she had the power to voice them.
The day seemed almost too perfect for the dark occasion that lie ahead, a cruel juxtaposition imposed upon them by nature.

Sofia was in a bright mood when Erik asked her if she would be so kind as to lend him her horse, carriage, and driver for the afternoon. She obliged him willingly, her eyebrows knitting together in concern only briefly at the black look upon his normally handsome, partially shielded face.

She feared his scowl would deepen and become permanent if she dared object to lending him her carriage. Today was a dark day for him, and she suspected his young paramour was setting out for lands unknown without him in toe. She always thought that affairs, especially those obviously meant to be kept secret and hidden, would end up being more taxing than satisfying.

Still, she asked no questions. She would do so later, preferably with a bottle of brandy in hand. A hard, strong beverage always loosened the tongue and took some weight off the heart.

Now Erik and Christine rode together, the wind gently rustling the leaves and battering against the carriage as it bumped and shook over the uneven dirt path.

The horse’s hooves clopped against the ground, the sound seeming like the ticking of the hands of the clock before a death sentence.

He wanted death, yet he could not bring himself to release his sweaty, straining, failing grasp on life.

“If we were different people, we would not have to do this.” Christine muttered silently to herself. He heard her.

“Right you are.” He smoothed back his wig and kept his eyes expressionless and cool.

“I wish…”

“Yes?” He turned to her and watched as she nervously wetted her lips and fidgeted with the material of her dress.

“Nevermind.”

The rest of the ride was, as the old adage goes, silent as the grave.

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The night came quickly, and Christine had not yet moved from her position on the sofa. Not once.
Her mind reeled with what had occurred that day, or perhaps, what had not occurred. Her soul, if there truly was such a thing, and she had great hope that there was, seemed to empty and fall like a dead weight to the pit of her stomach. It was shriveled, blackened, and as decayed as the flesh of the dead.

During a time long ago, in fact, it had begun to seem as though she had lived two lives, she had heard her ominous Phantom mourn the death of the music of the night. She had felt her heart grow cold as she too mourned the loss of her greatest inspiration. Yet now she knew that she not only lost a part of her music, she now lost the man who had become her lover. And she did not fight to get him back.

In her last life, she had been a girl with magnificent dreams and glamorous ambitions. She had her opera house, her friends, and her dark, mysterious tutor teaching her how to take her voice to new heights. She dreamed that her voice might make her a star, and she would forever make her father proud of what she worked so hard to become with the help of the spirit that he sent to her.

Then the voice turned into a man, a man who changed her life with one song. All he had to do was sing to her, and who she was - the woman she thought she was becoming - had been obliterated. He made her long for his touch, his voice, and his presence. All that she thought she knew, and all that she thought she was, was ripped away from her in mere moments of rapture. Yet, having her illusions shattered did not hurt, in fact, it excited her.

She was re-born as a woman with a new fate, and when that fate revealed to her a disfigured, broken man living a one-sided affair who was only being to reach her through song, she went from being heart-broken, to furious, to hopelessly intrigued. His lies were unforgivable, but his touch was all she wanted.

And so began her first life, the one wrought with pain and confusion. The one that ended with the possible death of a loved one on her conscience, and a void of disillusioned bitterness in her heart. She, the girl who believed in angels, became disenchanted and faithless.

That was, of course, until she agreed to make amends with the man who she hated and loved at the same time. She used to think such a thing absolutely impossible, but she was wrong. So very, very wrong.

Then began her second life, the one where she, a woman of conscious desire, decided to turn her angel into a flesh and blood man.

She admitted that she wanted him in a way that she would never want another man. She admitted that her marriage vows and motherly guidance from Madame Giry would not be able to keep her away from the man who beckoned to her in the darkness. She succumbed to him, and in doing so found a freedom she never thought possible.

The freedom to choose a lover. Not a mate, husband, companion, or friend, but a lover. How many other women were given the gift of a man to awaken their bodies to the heights of ecstasy? What women had the ability to seek out a man who enthralled them with his danger and enticed them with the forbidden?

Yes, he was daunting.

But he was also her deepest, purest desire.

And he was gone.

She had gotten out of the carriage, and the driver had helped her lift her bags and carry them into the house while Erik waited out of sight. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and ask him to forgive her for what had to be done, but she couldn’t. She wanted him to hold her, grasp her, and say anything to make her return, but he couldn’t do that either. They were both dead inside. A dark love that had been awakened was being denied, and the colour seemed to drain from their faces as they lost apart of themselves upon parting.

He simply bid her adieu, and off he went. Gone. As though he had never been there at all. As though they hadn’t spent night after night crying out obscene exclamations in each other’s arms. As though they hadn’t fought, cried, laughed, and seethed together. As though they hadn’t made the most beautiful music the world had ever heard with the inspiration of one another.

She was glad Raoul was not home. She did not know when he was to arrive, but she was glad that he was not there right now, singing her praises and regaling her with stories of his travels. If she saw another human being smile at her should she would surely strike the silly, frivolous expression right off their face!

Tiring of her own self-pity, she decided to go to bed and see if she felt human once again come the morning.

She stood up and walked into the great front hallway. It was dark and shadowy, almost eerie in its silence. She could hear her light steps echo as she made her way to the staircase, her feet seeming to barely touch the floor as she drifted like a ghost about the room. She was dead, in a metaphorical sense at least.

It sounded like there were footsteps behind her, trailing her softly. She didn’t care about the fanciful tricks that her mind wished to play on her. Caring took energy, and she was simply a flesh and bone creature moving through her house like the undead. Never feeling, never caring, simply living because there was naught much else to do.

An ominous creak made her stop. Her face whitened slightly, and she stopped to turn and look around. Nothing.

She continued towards the staircase.

Creak

“Impossible…” She muttered. She glanced around again; there was nothing there.

Creak

The house was quite new, she had no idea why it would creak so, and felt her heart begin to hammer rapidly in her chest.

Creak

The noise was not getting closer, but it was not getting further either.

Her mind was clearly punishing her for a multitude of reasons that she hadn’t the ability to think on at the moment. Sometimes the mind, just like the body, needed to rest after hours of strenuous exercise. She stepped forward once more.

Her breath was knocked from her body as a leather-clad hand closed over her mouth, and a large, black-covered body forced her to the floor.

She hit him once, twice, three times. She tried frantically to scream, but no sound aside from strangled squeaks escaped the cracks between his thick, long fingers. Her fist made contact with his jaw, which created a horrifically satisfying crack.

She couldn’t see his face, it was covered in black.

Strong hands grasped her wrists and forced them to the floor on either side of her head as his body moved rapidly to pin her heavily to the floor, which allowed her to bellow and rage freely as she struggled to dislodge him with her legs.

“Stop struggling!” A velvety, familiar voice barked out.

“What?” She stammered and gasped.

“We both know you love a man who’s a little on the rough side.”

She felt her lips being crushed against his as he raised his knee to press against her centre, effectively parting her legs as he did so.

She was overcome with a relief so great that she could have wept, and a rage so astute that she wanted to tear his heart from his chest.

Not to mention an arousal so fierce that she felt that would explode any moment.

She kissed him back with as much ferocity as she could muster, and the pressure he applied to her mouth was near painful.

Time felt like it was moving too fast, and Christine felt as though none of this could be real. Perhaps she was just having a vivid, perverse fantasy that was so lucid that she could swear it was happening.

The somewhat familiar sound of ripping fabric tore through her reverie. He had removed his gloves and impressively torn her skirts in half. He never held back, her Erik. It was one of things she found that she loved most about him. It was dangerously refreshing.

Her lips assaulted every part of him that they could reach, his lips, his face, his neck, his chest. She ran her hands through his hair and locked her legs around him tightly, holding him to her fiercely.

There were sounds coming from them that seemed more like the guttural grunts and groans of animals in heat. She moaned, gasped, and sighed while he grunted and exhaled harshly. Every breath that he drew in was ragged.

She pulled herself out from under him, wanting to move towards the stairs, to make it to her bedroom before christening the floor in their heated passion. He pulled her back roughly, his hands closing around her upper arms and dragging her across the wood before pinning her arms once more.

His hand was rough as it ran across her face and neck, before finally pressing harshly against her clothed breast. She arched into him, groaning as he pressed her back into the floor with a violent thrust of his hips.

One of her few remaining pairs of drawers were torn in half as she struggled to unbutton his pants and remove his straining cock.

He pulled her thighs apart harshly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as spread her legs as wide as her dexterity would allow.

Within seconds he was inside of her. They were nearly screaming with fulfillment as they moved together. He was not being tender or gentle, but vicious and animalistic. Her back scraped against the floor as he moved against her, bruising her inner thighs and pushing the air from her lungs with each savage thrust.

She was lost to the sensation of being overcome, and her legs locked tightly around his waist as she pushed against him, her lower body rocking against his as rapidly as possible.

The cried out and groaned, their sounds not even recognizable as those that human beings make.

She bit down on the fingers that he impulsively penetrated her mouth with, gently nibbling the tips and tasting the salty tinge of his sweat on her tongue.

His lips, teeth, and tongue ravaged her neck and chest, marking and reddening the pale skin as he continued to move within her harshly.

Christine felt strands of soft, brown hair come off as she dragged her moist hand from his head to feel the tensing and releasing of the muscles in his back. His skin was so hot and damp against his shirt, it nearly burned her.

She screamed out unintelligible things. She called him an angel, Erik, a ghost, and a cowardly bastard waiting to pounce upon her in the dark all in rapid-fire succession. She screamed that he was a beast, a creature, and a gloriously lecherous madman as she begged him to bury himself deeper and move faster and harder.

With a hoarse, ragged cry he plunged a hand between them and felt the swollen nub at the apex of her thighs. She screamed out and came apart in his arms almost immediately, her hips thrusting against his fingers and his body desperately as her eyes filled with water that had noting to do with sadness or pain.

Within moments he followed her, spilling into her and trembling violently.

They laid there, him still inside of her, breathing harshly.

“You know that I couldn’t let you go without saying good bye.” Erik grunted out.

“No, and I don’t suppose that subtly is your strong suit.”

She smiled.
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Black Angels