A Different Masquerade [2019] [P/UP]

The Deal

The air was cold and smelled of smoke beneath the opera house.

Though the fires had long since been put out and the angry mobs of actors and police alike no longer stormed the dark underground halls, there was still a scent of fresh destruction permeating what was once a place of sanctuary for the lone figure stumbling amidst the rubble.

The once terrifying Phantom of the Opera gazed with somber eyes at the wreckage of his home.

The proud house he had designed was gutted and burnt to the ground. His valuables had been stolen and the rest of his possessions destroyed, leaving behind the mask he now wore as the only physical reminder of his rein of terror. Not even his glorious pipe organ had survived the assault. All that remained now were the grasshoppers who fell in from the world above, and the scorpions that stole in from the earth below.

The Phantom exhaled deeply as his nimble fingers plunked down on silent keys—the brass pipes above letting out dying sighs—and did not even register the blood welling at his fingertips from the shattered ivories.

Perhaps he should have remained in his home instead of fleeing. Perhaps the mobs should have caught him. Perhaps then he might have finally known the sweet bliss of death after his horrific stint with life.

Perhaps Christine might have stayed.

Bloody fingers slammed on charred ivory and the organ let out a final groan.

No! She had made her choice and so had he. She chose Raoul . . . and he chose to let the two go.

The Phantom had realized Christine Daaé was not some songbird that he could keep in a cage. That kiss they had shared had woken him from his delusions and fantasies.

There was no love to be had in that kiss, only desperation; the desperation to save the De Chagney boy from near certain death. Christine had chosen him—a monster—as a last resort and nothing more.

It had been several weeks since the opera burnt and Christine had fled, but the wounds still felt fresh.

Broad shoulders hunched and hands began to shake as silent sobs wracked the Phantom's body.

No more . . . He couldn't do this anymore. It was wrong of him to flee. He should have just let the mobs destroy him. Perhaps then he would have finally had his angel . . . His—

"Erik?"

Christine!?

Erik Destler spun on his heel, confusion and disbelief pushing aside his self doubt for a brief moment at the sound of that voice.

Behind him, stepping gingerly over charred rubble, was a face he had assumed was lost to him forever.

Christine Daaé shone in the dark like an ethereal being—more gorgeous than Erik had ever remembered and wearing the same night slip as she did upon their first physical meeting.

It was odd, but the Phantom could not stop staring.

A look of relief washed over the young soprano's face and she ran forward, wrapping her slim arms around the still dumbfounded Phantom's thinning frame.

"Oh Erik, thank goodness you're here!" The girl cried. "It's been horrible! Simply horrible! Raoul, he—he drinks and calls me such awful things! He would lock me in our room alone for hours on end whenever the urge struck him! He hit me the other day and that's when I knew I'd made the wrong choice! Oh Erik, I'm begging you! Take me back, my angel! I don't care about your face! Please just say you'll take me back! Promise me that you will be mine forever! Promise me!"