Unmasqued

How could she explain to him that she had given her heart to another, only to have it rent from her? Destroyed by her own foolish choice, her own whim. How could she explain that she felt dead inside instead of alive, as she should feel now that she'd returned to the world of light?

"It has been three weeks since your return," Raoul continued. "You have walked about as if you are no more than a ghost… a specter, hardly noticing me when I call after you. Please tell me what I can do to return a smile to your face… color to your cheeks… a sparkle to your eyes. Please… Christine, tell me how I can help you sing again."

Her belly twisted. "I will not sing," she told him, but she left some kindness in her voice. He could not understand, and she could not punish him for his ignorance. "And I fear that there is nothing you can do but allow me to recover. I am merely weary." It was a lie, but what else could she say to such an earnest face, one that carried the illumination of obsessive love in its eyes?

"I told you I would still love you if you never sang again, and I will. But I feel I cannot allow it when I see how you are so ill. You must sing again."

She shook her head firmly. Her eyes felt parched and heavy in their sockets. She had no idea how many times she'd cried them dry. "Christine, please. I have loved you for so long… You can have no idea what I lived through when you were gone for those days. Please, at least tell me that you were not harmed… that he-it was he, was it not? — did not harm you."

"He, yes, it was Erik. And he did not hurt me…" Her voice choked and broke off. No, he did not hurt her in a way that left ugly red scars, purple bruises, or twisted limbs. A mangled heart, out, but that was buried inside of her where no one could see.

She could never go back… She might yearn for his love, his companionship, his tenderness… but she could not go back to that horror… that deep, burning anger and those ugly, twisted scars. His fury and hatred still scored her, as if he blasted her with a whip. He'd looked at her with loathing and repugnance, leaving her to cry herself to sleep, dreaming of his rages and his twisted face. When she awoke, she was back in her dressing room. Alone.

That was more than three weeks ago, and she had cried every night. She'd walked through the days in a stupor. She had been foolish, indeed, but Erik had sent her away. After all that they had shared, he'd sent her back.

And he'd not come to her since.

His face was horrible. The sudden revelation of what was under the mask had startled and frightened her, but not nearly so much as the rage and loathing that had followed. How could she live with that?

No. She must make her life here, in what she had come to think of as the World of Light. A world where she could see the man who loved her… where she could see and be seen with him. Where it would not be a great feat to walk along the street, hand on his arm, and shop in the shops, and dine with the managers. Where he had nothing to hide.

She could learn to accept that. Perhaps even to love him.

"Christine…" Raoul said her name like the whisper of a dying man, and she looked at him. Saw his blond hair and gray blue eyes, and the soulful, desperate look burning in them.

She reached for him, taking his face in her hands, holding it there between her palms. Firm, warm, textured with a day's stubble… it was a beautiful face. One that had the power to evoke deep devotion, but it drew only affection from her.

She had learned much in her weeklong disappearance, and even more in the last weeks of mourning and contemplation.

Christine Daae had grown up.

His lips gentled, slackening into a soft circle, and she bent to press her mouth to them. She felt his swift inward gasp of breath when they met, and she slipped her tongue out to lick over the top of them. Soft, pliant, willing, they were… She kissed him more deeply, there, in her dressing room… the one that had not felt the presence of the Angel of Music for nearly a month.

The one that she somehow needed to fill with warmth and emotion, tension and desire again.

The room that she could barely stand to be in alone.

Raoul's hands grasped her hips, pulled her up and against him. He was hard and ready, and she pressed her mound forward. Her body missed the pleasure it had become used to in Erik's lair.

What would it be like to make love to a man who had nothing to hide? Who did not seek to control her?

Raoul's hands were busy, pulling apart the buttons that lined her spine, and Christine let him. The change of air on her bare skin had her shrugging out of the bodice of her gown, eager to bare herself to him. To shed the clothing of her past and open herself to a man who loved her… a man, not a monster.

Tears burned her eyes, yet she tore the clothing from her body, helping him to see what he desired. To touch it. To own it.

Perhaps then she could be free of the ownership of another.

Perhaps he could help her forget.