Christine Daaé walked silently among her usual path that Sunday, her normal rounds to her father's grave rather cold. It was unfortunate, how the wind struck her down to her bones, but she had made a promise when he passed a year ago that her visits would remain constant.
He'd been very old, and very sick when he lay dying, and her heart clenched at the thought of a year ending, an entire year without her beloved papa. Not knowing her mother at all made the loss even more unbearable, but she supposed that complaining would do her no good. Christine did miss him tremendously, but she could not bring him back from the dead nor was she joining him in the same fate. Her life with her inheritance was well enough, and she had ample funds to give way until she was married.
Marrying was not on her agenda in the near future, though, seeing as she barely made it out of the house, let alone went to anywhere that would supply her a suitor. The money she was left from her papa could offer a way into a nice event or two, but she hadn't the dress or attire to do such things.
Living simple was easy, and Christine hadn't even complained about living off the land and what her fellow neighbors tended to contribute to her simplicity. The baker down the road loved her like a daughter, and his cousin just outside of town had zero qualms about her having a healthy portion of chicken and pork each week. The garden she tended to gave her vegetables and the like during the warm seasons, and during the few cold months they got, she had broth and dried fruits to keep her fed.
The first winter hadn't gone horribly without her father, even if Christmas had been the slight struggle, but now spring was here and hope blossomed for her heavy soul.
The warmth of the air hadn't quite stuck yet, and that was why the chill of the moaning wind kept her holding fast to her cloak. She shook slightly, the half-hour walk worth it.
A smile even came across her lips as she saw the upcoming abandoned manor. It had always held the most beautiful flowers that seemed to come at all times of the year, and it never failed her to pluck a few, bringing them to her father's grave. The large home had no gates, but the overgrowth itself provided its unnecessary protection. It had been abandoned for as long as Christine had known, yet she'd only seen it the past year. The baker down the street lived the opposing way.
Slowing down, attempting not to let the wind catch her, she plucked some resilient flowers of the cold spring and stood up, arranging them with a makeshift tie of long stems.
The bouquet was nearly finished when she heard something more than the rustle of wind against her ears. The poking, seering feeling of someone watching her didn't help either.
Had she been followed? What would anyone want with her anyways? She barely associated with enough people to be known of, let alone followed.
Christine's bouquet fell from her hands in a single moment when a figure appeared before her, standing tall, much larger than she ever dreamed of being. Even her father who stood a foot above her height may have seemed small to this person. The figure walked slightly forward, cloaked in black and his face masked by shadows.
Yet, when he turned his head and took his hood off, Christine realized he was masked by more than just shadows. His eyes, mouth, and chin were all that were visible below the surface of a hard, white mask. She wanted to cry out, but only Heaven knew what the man before her would do, so she stayed quiet.
"What are you doing in my yard?" He wondered, and suddenly she calmed, his voice one of the most wonderful things she'd heard in her life. It was nothing short of spectacular, but that still didn't explain why he called it his yard.
"Yours?" She echoed stupidly, but the fear still rooted in her despite the lull of his voice wasn't going anywhere.
"Yes, child, I live here," he answered.
Christine had to look pass the vibrato to hear the sarcasm with which he spoke.
"I always thought this place was abandoned."
"Is that why you thought you could continue to thieve flowers from my garden?"
His 'garden' wasn't much, Christine thought, but to each their own. It was, in reality, patches of random flowers with no real intentions of forming anything resembling the garden he spoke of.
"I wasn't stealing, to my knowledge… and by the way, I am no child," she defended clearly. At the age of nineteen, no woman was a child.
If she could see his face, maybe the laugh he emitted would have settled her nerves a bit more, but her vision of it was limited. They seemed to be getting on well enough in banter, yet Christine still hung on to her fears of what he could do. Being as large as he was, she admitted that running was not an option.
"Of course not… And any adult would agree that stealing is extremely wrong, so will you cease these actions?"
Christine swallowed hard. She felt that by her honor as a woman she had to agree to stop stealing, especially knowing now that there was a definite owner upon the grounds. Still, this was her only offering she ever brought her father when on visits to his grave, and she'd hate to give up such a tradition. Maybe if he knew they were for someone he'd just let her by? It was only once a week she collected, no use in making a fuss, right?
"Could I have your permission to continue possibly?" Christine dared, "I simply bring them to my father, and it has sort of evolved into an important tradition for me."
The man pulled his cloak closer, and it seemed that despite the heavy garment, the wind was reaching his bones as well. Christine hadn't ever wanted to escape a conversation more quickly. She supposed she should have simply agreed to not take the flowers and have been on her merry way.
Her fingers hurt, and frankly, her toes had started to go numb.
"Your father? Does he live down the way?"
"Yes," escaped Christine's mouth before she realized what she was saying. She cringed, knowing nothing further than the cemetery and that there were no houses between hers and her father's grave besides the one they stood before now.
"Well then," he replied lowly, and Christine imagined that he was raising a brow, "Show me. I'll let you continue your collection of my plants if you can prove to me you bring them to your father."
Far too deep into the lie, and not wanting to risk whatever the man may have planned were she to disappoint, Christine smiled in agreement. She didn't want to break it to him that her father was dead, but it seemed that she would simply have to clue him in when they entered the cemetery.
"This way then," she assured him, picking up her fallen bouquet, still a little unnerved at the mask which covered all facial expression… bar the smile he afforded.
"Does he always make you visit in the chill of spring?" The masked-man inquired, walking silently. Christine realized then that his rustle before was only to draw her attention. It was as if his feet didn't touch the ground!
"No," she muttered, "I come of my own accord."
"Ah," he drawled, the sound still not matching his demeanor.
Christine wanted him to be brooding and upset, and for his voice to match the dark and horrid way he presented himself. A masked figure with such an eloquent voice was sinful.
"My name is Mulheim, by the way Miss. Erik Mulheim."
The name, like his voice, wasn't fitting to the presentation, and Christine had to school her features not to laugh at the juxtaposition.
"Christine Daaé," she returned.
It was odd, her ability to settle into a pace with the man. It was a bit more brisk than original, but she didn't mind as her body began to warm from the work.
"Christine." He outstretched the syllables and then seemed to cringe as he glanced to her, the motion only sold when his head turned. Christine really hated that mask. She felt at a loss with its barriers. "Is my addressing you as Christine alright, Miss Daaé?"
"Fine," she assured him, though unsure of why. Her trust in him was founded on nothing more than the fact he hadn't done anything suspicious yet.
Her father would be disappointed, honestly, with her wanton treatment of a stranger.
"Then I insist you call me Erik," he sounded joyful at the insistence, and now Christine wondered just how much of a recluse he had to be. Then again, it didn't get much worse than her associations. The baker and his cousin hardly counted as friends and normal interactions for a woman her age.
"How long have you lived at that manor?" Christine asked, wanting to know more about the masked figure… maybe he would get tired of her inquiries and leave.
"Quite a few years, maybe even some that predate you, child."
"I'm a woman of nineteen, thank you, Erik."
There was a huff from the masked-man, and Christine glared pointedly in his direction. His hooded cloak looked thick, but when she caught sight of his hands, they seemed to shake. He spoke so calmly, too, how could he be so cold?
"Do you speak to your father that way, child?"
Christine figured there was no getting out of that nickname now.
"He's not the talking type," she addressed promptly, brushing off the subject with a counter, "Do you live with anyone?"
"No, I do not, Christine. No woman nor family would care to live with the likes of myself. And unless you are blind or too polite to point it out, I am strange with my mask and dressings."
Finally, she allowed herself to laugh.
"It's quite frightening. If you live alone, why wear it at all?" Christine wondered.
A chilled wind swept over them, and the creaking of the cemetery gate could be heard. Christine feared what came soon, but she ignored it in anticipation of his answer.
"I wore it to greet you, but I haven't worn this porcelain since my last outing in the night to fetch supplies for myself."
"Well, you needn't fear me," Christine said, slightly worried he was a wanted criminal, hiding his visage so the police wouldn't take him in.
"Ah, but you should fear me, child. I wear this only for your protection. I hide my face so that if someone does see me, they don't faint or… whatever their reaction is. One person punched me once, a fighting man, that one," he jested, despite the odd topic.
Christine could squint and see the cemetery gates, but that meant nothing as she stopped, occupied by his affliction.
"So you hide your face because you are…?" She didn't want to finish the sentence as he stepped past her, then realized what had happened.
Turning back, he faced her directly, and suddenly the yellow of his eyes, and tan of his lips came to view. While they were thin, his lips did look sickly, his chin connecting to a thin neck which was almost being drowned in his thick cravat.
How long had it been since he'd last eaten?
"Deformed," he finished, though the long break between their words made him stutter, "I am deformed, Christine. That's why I live out here in isolation."
He motioned his hand over the place as though he owned it and then turned away from her, the light peaking through the clouds apparently more than he'd bargained for.
The solemn sound Erik took in his speaking made Christine quite sad, though thoughts of any ill intentions he may have had were all gone in her suppositions.
"That's why you wear the mask," she added, following him as he moved down the path, approaching the cemetery fast and with a disconcerting amount of haste.
The masked-man huffed, moving forward silently now, leaving Christine only worried she had upset him. She certainly did not mean to, and her guilt welled exponentially when he started to pass right by the cemetery without a glance. She would have called out, really, if his gloved hands hadn't been the closest thing in reach, and her ungloved hands grabbed without so much as a command from her mind.
"I… know a... shortcut?" She stuttered, their hands firmly clasped together as she led his annoyed gaze towards the cemetery.
"Through there?" Erik scoffed, "Why not take the path around?"
"I do this every week, I would know where my father lie-lives, yes?" Christine cursed her slip-up, but it didn't seem to arise any suspicion, so she let go of him awkwardly and pulled open the creaking cemetery gates.
She definitely didn't see him glance curiously at his hand before following, that was just a trick of the forest shadows.
"This is slightly morbid, Christine."
Christine just nodded, the path to her father's grave memorized and stuck within the confines of her brain.
The rest of the walk was silent, and the eyes on her back seemed to do well for warmth, if the redness of her cheeks wasn't enough.
When she stopped, and glanced towards the ground floor, Christine allowed the masked-man his thought process before confirming the ideas she could feel coming off of him.
"Hello, father," Christine sniffed, crouching down, the chill making her nose run, tears about his passing long gone. Or so she liked to think. "I brought new flowers for you, and a friend."
The word 'friend' made Erik take a step back, which nearly made Christine laugh. The man she was visiting was dead, but surprise hit Erik only when he'd heard her call him friend?
"The flowers here… are all from my garden?"
Last week's set still lied against her father's stone, and Christine smiled as she took off her own hood and pushed back her curls.
"Yes…" she said, standing back upright, brushing off her skirts.
"I apologize for my intrusion… I'll let you be now," he tried to escape, but Christine grabbed his hand again and smiled weakly.
"Stay, will you? I've never had anyone here with me while I visit. It gets sad and lonely sometimes."
With a weary glance at their joined grasp, Erik nodded, biting his lip.
"If you so wish."
"I do," Christine said, smiling at her father's grave for the first time ever. Gustave Daaé would have liked to see his daughter smile, she was sure.
Christine smiled as she walked down the path that warm, summer Sunday, her hand holding another's, and her heart fluttering in a way she'd never imagined it would. She was happy, and with another at her side, it was no surprise to either of them.
Erik and her had quickly become something of a couple, in their way, as Christine visited the man regularly after their first run-in. Just a month into the weekly visits, he'd properly asked her to dinner, and she'd properly replied yes. He adored her dearly, more than Christine felt her father had, though she tried not to admit that out loud.
He was kind in his love for her, the summer months showing his true nature. The man of music, still a man with his mask, brought over Christine a calm she thought she had possessed already. Her grief had not been complete, truly, until Erik had taken her love.
His home was beautifully put together, the gorgeous inside nothing like the wild outside. Carpets of luxury from far-off places, and glass formed into art of decadence. She learned him, and Erik eventually knew the path to her father's grave as well as she did.
Who knew her small lie about flowers could get her a love that large?