Symphony in the Twilight - new update- 1/12/17

Re: Symphony in the Twilight - updated- 1/8/17

Postby Godzuki » Mon Jan 09, 2017 2:08 pm

YIKES I'm always nervous when you "muahaha" us! :ohno:

Next chapter, please! :clap: :angel2:
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Re: Symphony in the Twilight - updated- 1/8/17

Postby honeyphan » Thu Jan 12, 2017 5:55 am

Nervous? Why should you be nervous? (heh heh heh)...

Here's the next one. :)

Who Scorn His Word, Beware to Those...

(The Angel Sees, The Angel Knows)

Chapter LXVII


"I still cannot believe he would do such a thing. He really does hate me now…" Christine continued the despicable discourse with Meg, her eyes lifting to the flies where she saw a flutter of the bottom of his dark cloak. "To treat me no better than Carlotta, though with her it was a fallen tapestry, not a cut sandbag."

I hope you're happy now, Mon Ange.

The lies tasted bitter on her tongue, necessary according to her dear husband, and she knew he was right. Still, she despised every evil word of this feigned performance.

"You could have been killed!" Meg exclaimed in horror, taking up her cue. "That the Phantom would shadow you like that and strike when you were helpless and alone. It's a good thing Maman heard you scream. There's no telling what else he might have done."

Christine narrowed her eyes slightly, thinking Meg was playing her part a little too well. But then, she wasn't as deeply affected as Christine, who loved Erik with all of her heart that was being slowly shredded to bits by telling such awful falsehoods, all for her protection.

"I can't believe I actually trusted him." This was the hardest part. "That I called him my Angel. I see now that everyone in the theater was right about him being …"

No. No matter what, she could not call him what he instructed her to. He was not a monster.

"Being what he is," she finished lamely, the tear that slid down her cheek no pretense.

Meg's lips pressed together in a sympathetic quirk as she laid a comforting hand on Christine's arm. "At least you found out in time how wicked he can be."

"Mm." Christine could take no more. She turned aside, as if just now noticing a trio of dancers huddled a short distance away, all of whom never liked her. Oddly, Josette and Lysette were not with them, in fact, the two had thankfully ignored her presence since she'd come onstage. The other girls whispered excitedly to one another while glancing at Christine. One of them, Rochelle, straightened to smirk at her.

"So you're the Phantom's new target? It couldn't happen to a nicer girl."

Her friends tittered at the snide remark, and Christine feigned shocked embarrassment that their conversation was overheard. Thankfully, Madame Giry chose that moment to tap her cane onstage for everyone to take their places.

Task achieved, Mon Ange. I hope it was worth it.

Scarce minutes later, during the first stanza of the opening song, a muffled boom and horrified cry abruptly put a halt to the practice. The explosion had been like that of a pistol being discharged, and everyone swung their heads in alarm toward the direction of the sound.

"My music!" A man cried out in anguish, rushing from the backstage corridor and onstage to peer out toward a row of seats where the managers watched the rehearsal. He stood a little shorter than Christine, his white hair in straggled hanks and hanging to his shoulders. His face was blackened with what looked like soot, his hands likewise, and patches of the same dark substance covered his shirt and waistcoat.

"Monsieur Alucard," Firmin said sternly. "What is the meaning of this?"

"My music," the little man gasped again, "it goes up in flames – poof!" He illustrated wildly with his hands, and Christine could see they were burnt, patches of shiny pink amid the black.

"What are you saying?" Andre asked with impatience. "Do be clear, monsieur."

Monseiur Alucard gritted his teeth. "I write the music you tell me, to change Don Juan opera for songs and acts to support glorious revolution. I set my pen down one moment, one moment – and poof! The papers explode before my eyes in burst of fire – all my hard work gone!"

"The Opera Ghost!" someone exclaimed. "It must be…"

Christine lifted her eyes to the flies, entertaining no doubt.

"I will work here no more," Monsieur Alucard proclaimed, "It is not safe."

The evil leader of the new regime appeared out of nowhere and approached the frantic composer, grabbing his arm and swinging him around.

"You'll do as you're told."

"B-but – my hands!" Monsieur Alucard held up his pitiful extremities for the revolutionist leader to see. "I cannot hold a pen to write!"

"Mademoiselle Chardon," Monsieur Bouchard called, never taking his cruel black eyes off the meek little composer. Lysette left her place in the line of dancers to heed his order. "Take Monsieur Alucard and bandage his hands. Monsieur, I expect the changes to the second act to be completed before Monsieur LeStrange's return in three days."

"But I cannot – "

"Your daughter lives in Paris, oui?" he said very softly, but from Christine's position a few feet away she heard him quite well. "On the Rue Tronchet, which happens to be close to my flat. Living alone as she does cannot be safe."

Monsieur Alucard's mouth dropped open in fear at the veiled threat, his eyes white amid the smears of black. "Please," he begged, his voice equally low. "Not my Mina…"

Bouchard scowled at the poor man. "Do as we ask, and you have nothing to fear."

The composer nodded frantically. "Yes, yes, I will do it. I will write the opera."

"Very good. Now see to your hands."

Monsieur Alucard escaped with Lysette offstage. Bouchard pivoted, spotting Christine.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daae, you have returned."

As he moved closer, Christine compared him to a cobra. Vicious, deadly, with threatening black eyes like beads. She felt strongly aware of her Phantom's presence, as if he had also drawn close, ever watchful, with eyes that burned.

"I trust you've recovered from your…accident?"

The snide spin he gave the word made it clear he did not believe her excuse. She struggled to remain calm.

"Yes, thank you."

He grimaced. "Explain to me what happened?"

Erik had warned her they might demand details, and she searched her memory for all he told her to relate.

"It was after the last rehearsal – everyone had left the theater, but I needed to discuss something with Madame Giry. After our meeting, I was crossing the stage and looking through my reticule, to be sure I had the key to my flat. It was dark, only the stage floodlights were lit, and I heard a noise. It startled me and I dropped my reticule. When I bent down to collect what spilled, the sandbag fell and hit me. I screamed and Madame Giry found me."

He looked toward the flies. "Those sandbags are large and extremely heavy. It is curious that it didn't break your back falling from such a height."

"I was fortunate." Seeing his doubt, she added, "It struck the edge of my back, not my spine."

"Exactly where did this happen?"

"Where was I struck?" At his curt nod, she carelessly motioned behind her, "Over there." She noted that all who stood in the vicinity watched and listened with rapt attention.

"Buquet's post," Bouchard said. "Had he not been discharged that afternoon, the accident might not have occurred."

He turned narrowed eyes on her filled with what seemed venomous intent.

At the name of her attacker, the blood rushed from Christine's face.

"I don't…" Her voice wavered.

"Is there a problem, Mademoiselle? You look ill."

Did he know? Did he know the attack made on her was the accident that kept her away? No, no accident. A dark plan of sinister intent.

Stay calm, my Angel.

The words were a quiet breath in her ear and as effective as brandy in how it warmed and soothed her soul. She barely prevented a smile at the reminder that he was with her, there to support her. To these men, a Ghost and a Devil, but to her, always her Angel.

"My apologies, monsieur," she said in a more controlled tone. "The physician who attended me told me a week might not be enough time for my body to heal, suggesting a fortnight instead, but I was eager to return to the stage. Apparently he was correct in his judgment. I was wrong not to take his advisement more seriously. Perhaps I should."

Though he made no audible sound with ventriloquism or otherwise, she could almost hear Erik's pleased chuckle in her bid for more time.

Bouchard crossed his arms and studied her, head to toe. "You're able to stand and move about the stage. Besides singing, there's little else you do. If you require periods of rest so you don't keel over, take them, but I expect you in this theater under Madame Giry's direction from this day forward."

She had not really believed he would give her another week, but couldn't resist the attempt.

"You needn't fear the Phantom's interference much longer. He'll not win with these games of his."

Bouchard's curt words sent chills shivering down her spine. She could well imagine Erik's contemptuous sneer from above.

"You have a plan, monsieur?" He looked at her suspiciously, and she added, "So many have tried and failed. The Opera Ghost is very powerful."

"He is only a man, is that not so? Perhaps you even know where he lives and hides since he was once your teacher."

Christine could feel the collective breath of every performer there as they waited to hear what she would say. She curled her fingers into damp palms.

"I don't know. We met in the chapel. I took my lessons there."

"The chapel?" Bouchard scoffed in disbelief at her quiet words, and she heard derisive snickers among the cast. "The Phantom of the Opera inside a chapel?"

Secrets kept for almost all of one lifetime were needed no longer, but to hear her most treasured moments ridiculed hurt like physical blows, and his demeaning tone against her husband made Christine want to scratch his beady black eyes out of their deep sockets.

"And what does this Phantom look like? You must know that."

"I never saw his face. He wore a mask and remained in the shadows."

"You never saw his face?"

"No. Never."

"Did he not attend the Bal Masque with you? That's what I've been told."

Christine swallowed over a dry throat. "He was in costume, as we all were. His face was fully covered with a mask like a skull."

"Monsieur Bouchard…" Madame Giry's firm voice came like an avenging angel from upstage. "I must insist that we resume rehearsal. In order to meet the goals Monsieur LeStrange has set, to put on this production for our glorious revolution in two weeks, I need every opportunity for practice. Some of the dancers are new and need additional time to learn the steps. Christine, if you will please return to your blocking position."

With eyes wide, Christine stared from his anger-reddened face toward Madame Giry, who from her angle could not see his volatile reaction to her patronizing words of appeasement.

Christine wondered how she did not choke on them.

Eager to escape the inquisition, worried she had said too much and relieved when the snake of a man did not strike out or stop her, she hurried to her starting spot and did not look his way again.




With the day's rehearsals blessedly at an end, Christine swept through the mirror door Erik opened and waited for him to close it. From his stilted greeting and the swift buss of his lips that landed near her temple, he was upset, no more than she. Near the third cellar, she could almost see the tension shimmering in dark waves in the air around them, and felt unable to remain silent any longer.

"You could have killed him."

He scoffed out a deprecating laugh. "Hardly that."

Christine stared at him in disbelief. "His hands, Erik. Did you not see them? They were burnt almost bloody, and his face and clothes were blackened with soot!"

"It was not my intent for the fool to come to harm – only that the wretched revisions to my score be obliterated. I caused the papers to combust when he was at a reasonably safe distance. The imbecile rushed forward in a reckless attempt to salvage his pathetic works."

His explanation tersely given, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her along, resuming their trek down the sloping column of stone. Christine struggled to keep pace with his long strides, soon gasping for breath.

"Erik – please! You're walking too fast."

He spun around so suddenly she barreled into him. His hands went to her shoulders to steady her and remained there in a firm grasp.

"Have you any concept of the rage that tore through me when that insolent cretin had the gall to approach and speak to you in that manner? And then, to see him leer at you throughout the thrice-damned rehearsal!"

He shook her a little in his frustration, and tears of compassion glazed her eyes. She had noticed Bouchard's eyes on her, not filled with lust but something just as chilling.

"I have you to protect me."

"How- HOW can you have such faith in me when I failed you before?"

"You didn't fail me. We spoke of this. You left with the belief that I was immediately going to rehearsal –"

"I should have waited until you left the dressing room and watched –"

She shook her head fiercely. "No, no - stop! Please, stop." The tear that trickled down her cheek mirrored his torment. "I beg you, let us put all of that day behind us. I cannot bear to speak of it again. I cannot bear you blaming yourself any longer - please –"

He pulled her to him fast and hard, holding her head against his chest near the swift beating of his heart. His arms locked possessively around her, his palm cradling her scalp, his lips brushing her temple in comfort. She clung to him just as fiercely, struggling to quench her tears, so incredibly weary of crying…

Once she calmed, Christine pulled back somberly to look at him. Her fingers lifted to brush the trail of moisture that had seeped from beneath his black mask.

"One thing I must know. Will you…" She hesitated, afraid to ask, to hear his response. "Will you kill again?"

At her soft, anxious query, his eyes grew sad, his expression no less determined.

"If I must."

This wasn't the answer she wished for, and she shook her head, taking a small step back as if to deny such words.

"Christine, listen to me…" He clasped her arms and bent down so that his stormy green eyes were at a level with hers. "I will do all within my power to keep you safe. You are what is most important to me, even above the music which was once all I had – you are my world. With every breath, every thought, every fiber of my being, I love you. Always, Christine, everything I do is for you."

Her heart melted at his earnest avowal. His hands smoothed down her arms and clasped her hands, taking them in a firm grip then lifting them to his mouth. He held her hands to his lips a moment in veneration before lowering them.

"This is a war, as I've told you, and the battlelines have been drawn. It is not your typical battleground, but it is a war all the same. In every war there are casualties that cannot be helped. It is why I felt it imperative that they think you're on their side."

"And the innocents?" she insisted. "Must they suffer? You heard him, Erik. Monsieur Alucard is as much a victim as we are."

He raised his brow in mild contempt. "I am not their victim."

"Yes, you are, my love – but that doesn't make you weak. You're still the powerful, almighty Opera Ghost, as you've proven today. They seized your opera, an opera you worked long and hard to create, and they work to defile it. That's what I meant by being a victim. They are evil, and I understand your desire to exact justice. I simply don't want the innocents hurt, as that poor man was hurt today!"

"Alucard brought his injuries on himself through his foolish ignorance in trying to save what was already destroyed," he explained again, somewhat impatiently. "But this vow, I will make to you – I'll not set out to harm those undeserving of it. In Persia, killing was a demand made of me that evolved into satisfaction and ultimately regret. Since I have known you, Christine, since you have come into my life and become the very worth of my existence, my values have changed. I no longer possess the desire for revenge and murder that once drove me, would never again wish to revisit such dire methods, but when it comes down to us or them, I will do all I must to ensure that it is us who triumphs, even if it ends in their death."

He looked into her eyes, desperately seeking her understanding. "Can you accept that, Mon Ange? Can you accept me as I am?"

Much of what he said went against every principle she'd been taught of good and evil that she once so religiously believed. She still believed in redemption and forgiveness. But after having stood by, helpless…after having seen the malicious darkness that spread like a plague and infiltrated the lives of all those she cared about…after having suffered the horrific trials and heartaches that stemmed through the new regime, she now understood that sometimes there were necessary areas of grey.

"Yes, I can accept that. And you." She squeezed his hands. "I love you, Erik."

Relief brimmed in his eyes and slipped past his lashes. He blinked rapidly and looked away. His tears clutched her heart, and she realized then what he most feared.

"Erik, I will never leave you. I may not always agree with or understand your methods, but the vows I made are eternal. You are mine, and no shadows - past, present, or future - will change that. You're stuck with me, my darling, forever."

Christine smiled saucily through her own tears, and he gave a short laughing sob, grabbing her to him as she lifted her arms around his neck and her lips for his kiss.

When they parted to continue their journey home, it was with a mutual feeling of camaraderie that had been missing when he met her at the mirror door.

They passed the evening with a lesson in music, shortened to fit in her lesson in weaponry. Only when they finished with that did she claim her well-deserved prize for her magnificent vocal session.

"I want you to teach me to make coq au vin," she said with a smile.

He rolled his eyes a little. "Again, we have no chicken."


"It was your request during your champagne decadence."

"Oh." Her skin flushed a shade rosier. "But we do have apples, sugar, spices…" She gave a thoughtful nod. "Very well. I want to make baked apples with that wonderful glaze sauce you made last week."

He rakishly grinned and gave a graceful bow.

"As my diva commands."

She giggled, surprised that she could be so happy regardless of what troubles they faced. These evenings with Erik and the close esprit de corps they shared in their tasks and at play were sparkling gold amidst the dross that clouded her life. She only wished she could bottle these moments up to hold onto forever...




While the Phantom placed fresh tinder beneath the stove and lit the wood to warm the oven, Christine sliced apples. He then turned to gather the slices into a pan, surprised fewer were there than should be for the amount Christine had cut, and he caught her as she popped the remainder of one into her mouth.

His brow lifted and she smiled endearingly.

"If you continue like that, there won't be any left to bake."

"I can't help it, Mon Ange, they're so good."

"Hmm." He affected a stern demeanor. "Well, come along and I'll instruct you how to make the sauce."

Standing side by side at the stove, Christine watched curiously as he stirred into a pot sugar, red wine, and a small amount of water.

"The secret is not to let the fire get too hot."

She pressed her hand to his back, her fingers trickling in small distracting circles as he stirred the sauce while it thickened.

"May I?" She took the spoon he handed her and gave the sauce several stirs then lifted it to see thin clumps fall into the mixture. "I think it's ready." She blew on it softly and brought the spoon to his unsuspecting lips.

He shrugged. "It will pass."

She cocked a surprised brow at his judgment.

"That doesn't sound very good."

The Phantom watched her slip the tip of the spoon into her own mouth for a taste.

"Perhaps more sugar?" she pondered.

His eyes intently followed the movement of her tongue as she slowly licked off a dollop from her lip then took another nibble.

"It's not bad..."

He removed the spoon from her hand, set it down, then bent to catch the second drip from her lips with his tongue, gently sucking her lower lip between his.

"Better," he purred. "It only needed the right sweetness."

She gasped as he grabbed the sash of her robe, pulling her flush against him. "I think it should simmer longer," he whispered against her ear.

Her palms rubbed up his chest and spread the lapels of his robe wide. Her mouth brushed against his heated skin, her tongue flickering out to lick him.

"I like how you taste…"

Her amorous response triggered the escalating desire for his provocative wife that was never far distant, and his hands smoothed down to her bottom, pushing her hips against his and making her aware of his true hunger. Lifting her against him, he kissed her then swung her around and set her on the dustcover that adorned the high table and now served as a tablecloth.

Stunned by the swiftness of his act and their intriguing change of venue, her lips parted in a shocked smile. He grinned at her devilishly.

"I have decided that what I truly desire is an unlimited portion of the unsurpassed delicacy of Madame Christine."

She giggled at his roguish words, her eyes alight with expectation. He untied her sash, pulling the edges of her robe from her shoulders while his lips traced her neck and nibbled the rim of her ear.

"I trust you have no objections to the menu's addition?"

"Mmm…oh no, not a one," she whispered, loosely wrapping her arms around his shoulders as his attentions traveled lower. He sucked one pert nipple into his mouth, brushing it with his tongue and eliciting her gasp.

"Though it seems we've been here before, Maestro," she said dreamily. "And burnt the pudding because of it."

Instantly he pulled away. "You make a valid point, my dear."

Shocked that he would actually end such pleasures, she straightened to sit up as he moved to the stove –

"Erik, no - I didn't mean –"

He took the pan off the heat, immediately turning back to her before she could finish her protest.

"The sauce can wait." The gleam in his darkened eyes was nothing but wicked as he pressed his hands to her bare waist.

"Come to me, my darling Maestro." With an enticing smile, Christine slid her arms back around his neck. "Now where were we?"

Her head fell back in pleasure as he lowered his head and showed her.

"Oh, yes…there…"

The baked apples in wine sauce turned out to be a sweet delight, but the delectable course of carnality that preceded dessert was sheer perfection.

It was with warm contentment she fell into dreams held closely in his arms.

It was with cold fear she woke from a nightmare to find him absent from their bed.


Christine quickly donned her wrapper, reminded of another occurrence when they made love and she awakened to find him desolate, staring out over the dark green water and speaking of death. A nearby candelabra emitted enough light to see that he did not inhabit that spot, was in fact nowhere in the vicinity.

Alarmed, she ducked into the next corridor, peeking past the black hanging and hoping she wouldn't find him in that dreadful coffin. To her relief, a shroud covered the long box, proving it must be empty, though to her chagrin he had again lifted it to occupy the low table instead of disposing of it as she would have wished.

Perhaps he had gone to the springs, though, and she groaned to realize it – she had forgotten to check the privy. Surely he was there.

With the intent to return to their bedchamber before he found her missing and went on his own search, she hastened to the stairs.

"Christine, I'm here."

His voice came soft and dismal, and she turned from the first staircase. In the darkness she could see his shape on the sofa, much as before, a sense of déjà vu striking her as she drew close and saw his mother's journals on the table before him. One lay open, and her quiet Phantom stared into the glowing embers of the absent fire. A candle burned low on the table, shedding a modest amount of light, barely enough to see.

Her heart twisted in dismay and she moved to sit beside him, taking his hand where it rested on his lap. "I thought you weren't going to read them. That you decided they weren't worth your time."

His smile came as a grimace. He had yet to look at her.

"You're not the only one with a curious nature. Once you slept, I left to attend, shall we say, duties of the Opera Ghost. Upon my return, I felt much too alert and could not stop thinking about our conversation over the journals."

"You read them then? All of them?"

He nodded.

"I wish I'd never said a thing," she lamented, feeling wretched to see lines of misery on his shadowed face, what she could see of it beneath the black mask.

She reached up to pull away the covering. He stopped her with a hand to hers.

"No. Not now," he said quietly, making her despise her foolish persuasions all the more.

Logic convinced her heart that he needed the mask at this moment. Not as a shield to keep her out, but as security against the world's cruel reception of him, represented by all he'd read and what surely must have unearthed a dungeon of tortured memories.

"I'm so sorry." It was all she could think to say.

He kissed her palm and lowered it, keeping his hand held in hers and pressed against his chest. She laid her head on his shoulder, and for a long time they stared into the remnants of the fire.

"I knew my father despised me, had been told so by my handler…" His low voice came so suddenly it startled, and she lifted her head to look at him. "But I never realized to what depths that hostility existed." He shook his head, a despondent chuckle escaping. "And the worst of it is – I see traits of his character in myself."

"You are nothing like that monster," she viciously assured him.

He stroked her hand with his thumb, a sardonic smile lifting his tight lips.

"I wish to God you were wrong, Christine, but consider the evidence. The Comte condemns and seeks to dispose of those who offend him. He manipulates people into doing his bidding. Those who oppose his authority are met with threats and an iron fist. He is stern in his control to the point of being malevolent. He takes whatever he wants when he wants and woe to those who fight back. Does that not remind you of anyone?"

Barely moving his head, he glanced into her eyes in self-mockery. She flinched at his blunt assessment.

"Granted, maybe once you behaved like that, but you've changed. You're a better man, Erik, better than he could ever hope to be."

"I am fortunate to have you for my champion," he said with another kiss to her hand she kept held in his.

"Your mother thought you worthy to be called her son. She loved you. Did you read that? If you must dwell on anything that came from those bleak journals, think on those words."

He flinched, though his eyes held a strange glow.

"The night of the spirits, I heard her," he said quietly. "She told my nursemaid to pass along the message to me, but the woman died before I was old enough to retain such knowledge. I never told you. I struggled to believe it, even hearing her say the words as she lay on her deathbed. Later, once the torment of that night ended, I put it all aside, finding excuses for such a confession, never allowing myself to dwell on those startling past shadows. Her fever from childbirth, her guilt and fear – all of it seemed a viable excuse to believe such words empty…then."

"And now?" she asked when he did not continue.

"In reading of her life, I see she was as much a victim as the child I'd been. That perhaps her profession that she loved me…" His eyes narrowed in dwindling doubt, soft with dim hope. "Perhaps she did mean it, in her own fashion."

"How could she not? The man you've become – those who bother to know you – accept and care what happens. Even Meg." At her slightly sleep-garbled words, she grinned a little self-consciously. "The child you were then, I can imagine how sweet and angelic you were…"

She envisioned a smaller, softly-defined version of Erik, with light brown curls and huge smoky green eyes, imagined giving birth to such a child, to Erik's child, and once again forced away such thoughts that were never far from the periphery of her dreams.

He kissed her hand. "You should be in bed. You need your rest."

"Only if you come and hold me."

He heard the tightness that clutched her voice and searched her face.

"Another nightmare, my love?"

She sighed pitifully. "Will they never end?"

"I wish I could tell you they will, but based on my own experience, they may not." He brushed a curled finger down her cheek. "But I will be with you to help you through the fear."

Christine softly embraced him. "Always and forever?"

"Always and forever."

"That's all I need, you beside me…"

The Phantom stood with her, helping her to rise, and walked arm in arm with her to their bedchamber. Soon realizing she was sleepier than she'd let on, when she stumbled and clung to the back of his sash so as not to fall, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to bed.

He lay awake for some time, staring at the dome of the black veil of gossamer above their heads. Not wishing to dwell on the journals (for fear of being sucked into a vicious cycle of hope and despair), or think of the past delightful hours with Christine, (wishing to let her sleep and knowing to dwell on such memories would prevent that) – he thought instead of the upcoming attack.

Those fools would not win, he would see to that and somehow devise methods to fight back and uphold the vow he made to his beloved. His recent foray into the darkened theater, slipping like the Ghost he was through its many corridors and chambers, would ensure both his plan of retaliation and her peace of mind. He only hoped such pranks would be enough.

Hearing her whimper in her sleep, he drew Christine close in his embrace and brushed his lips against her hair, at last closing his eyes.

Above all else, he would keep her safe.



Let me know when you're ready for the next one. :)
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Re: Symphony in the Twilight - new update- 1/12/17

Postby Godzuki » Sat Jan 14, 2017 8:37 pm

I love how hard it was for C to tell those lies about her hunny :love:

I love how good she is for him and the effect she has on him, you have captured their magic!

HoneyPhan wrote:Let me know when you're ready for the next one. :)
I think you know the answer to that question ;)
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Re: Symphony in the Twilight - new update- 1/12/17

Postby honeyphan » Sun Apr 09, 2017 8:24 pm

Godzuki wrote:I love how hard it was for C to tell those lies about her hunny :love:

I love how good she is for him and the effect she has on him, you have captured their magic!

HoneyPhan wrote:Let me know when you're ready for the next one. :)
I think you know the answer to that question ;)

Hey girl- I apologize for how long this has taken, BUT
I finished Come to Me, if you're still interested in that one and would like me to post it here.
Yes, that's right - finished - at last. lol

There have been mixed reviews on fanfiction- some wanted it to go on and on and never end, some are happy that after 7 years, there is now closure. lol I'm in the middle. Didn't want to let the characters go, but knew I had to...

Anyway, now that Come to Me is done, I'll be working more on the other 4 PotO stories I have going there, and will definitely be posting more of Symphony soon too. :hearts:

Thank you as always for your support! Image
(And do let me know if you would like to read more of Come to Me too)
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