A/N: This AU started out as a collection of random ficlets and headcanons on Tumblr. Here they are, with new material written to fill in the gaps. There will be A Number of chapters, and when updates will occur I have not yet decided. Much of it still needs to be written, but consider this a taster. There is Much to come.
Also, a brief note. The aspects of Erik's history that led to his becoming a composer and a conductor instead of the Opera Ghost will be revealed as the story progresses, and the Farhad referenced in this chapter is in fact the Persian.
She has heard of him. Of course she has heard of him. Monsieur Erik Delacroix, composer and conductor of the Palais Garnier orchestra. How could she not have heard of him? His name is on the lips of every Conservatoire student, every opera-attendee. Delacroix's newest work. Delacroix conducted. Delacroix is the finest.
Christine is not certain what she expected the first time she laid eyes on him, mere days after arriving at the Garnier. She knew about the mask, of course. Everyone knows about the mask. Wounded in the war, they say, taken prisoner by the Germans but escaped. Perhaps she expected him not to be so tall. He is terribly tall, seems to tower over every member of his orchestra. Tall, and thin. Even in his dress clothes, prepared for a night's performance, he looks too thin. Elegant, certainly, graceful in fact. But too thin.
Her eyes return to him, over and over again, in spite of her best efforts to the contrary. There is something about him, something in the way he stands, something in the way his black-gloved fingers curl around his baton. Something about how his pocket watch shines golden in the gaslight. Elegant, and tall, and proud, and her heart catches but it is only nerves, surely. Only nerves.
Erik does not make it a habit to pay attention to chorus girls. Normally, they only draw his eye when it is his own piece they are performing and he wishes to correct them. But there is something about this new girl that he cannot put his finger on. Something in the way she frowns, and it is damn troubling.
He learns her name by accident, when another chorus girl, Mademoiselle Ledoux, refers to her as Christine. Christine. He turns it over in his mind, as if the cadence of it can tell him what it is about her that keeps distracting him. But it is a name, simply a name like any other.
For obvious reasons, he has never permitted himself to consider women before, and certainly not chorus girls. But she would be, he thinks, considered pretty by those knowledgeable about such things.
(They were performing Gounod's Faust, the closing night, and he described the girl to Farhad before the show, and afterwards Farhad told him that the girl is certainly pretty but not an exceptional beauty, and it was the least helpful thing that Farhad could have said because it troubled Erik all night and he still could not conclude what it is about her that makes him wonder.)
He pushes the girl out of his mind, and resolves to forget her. But that same cursed memory that ensures he remembers too many things in intricate detail means she is always there, lingering in the back of his mind, and when he is in the theatre late one evening, rehearsals over and orchestra gone home, and hears soft singing from the stage, something in him just knows.
The language catches him off guard. It is not one he is familiar with, not Italian, not German, not French, not Russian, not even Persian. It is sweetly lilting, and his breath shudders with the aching sadness of it, the words conjuring images of snow, of faraway lands and distant beauty.
The song finishes, and Erik's eyes flicker back open without him realising he closed them. The girl glances from side to side, and scurries off the stage before he has time to stop her. And he is left standing, the world tilting into place.
He hears her singing several more times, after that. Picks her voice out from amongst those of the other chorus girls. Once he is aware of it, knows it, the thread of it is easy to find, and he distantly listens to her as he drills his orchestra. She has a beautiful voice. He does not think it is an exaggeration to say he has never heard the like of it. Such sweetness. It far surpasses Carlotta, and Carlotta is good, he will admit, and she does his pieces justice otherwise she would not be here, but this girl, this Christine. There is a haunting quality in her voice that, with a little work on her technique, might be very wonderful indeed.
(Her voice follows him home each night, wends through his brain in the half-shadows between waking and sleeping, and when he succumbs it is there in his dreams, soft and sad and just out of his reach.)
It has become Christine's evening tradition, after rehearsals, to wait until the theatre is quiet and take to the stage. She sings the songs that it feels right to sing, be they arias or the old songs her father taught her, so long ago. And if she closes her eyes, if she closes her eyes she can pretend she is singing for all of Paris.
And so, this evening, the same. She bids farewell to the other girls, secrets herself in the shadows and watches them leave. The director, the managers, the individual members of the orchestra, the ballet corps, Monsieur Delacroix one of the very last. Everyone in dribs and drabs until the theatre is empty. And then, steeling herself against the inevitable rush of nerves because even though the theatre is empty it is still a theatre, she steps out onto the stage and positions herself in the middle.
From this angle, the vastness of the auditorium never ceases to take her breath away.
She draws a shuddering breath, and nods, closing her eyes against the sight of the empty seats. What to sing? She does not usually have to decide, but her mind is blank. Perhaps this is a bad idea. Perhaps she should go home and instead find something to sing tomorrow.
Soft singing from behind her breaks into her thoughts. "Der du von dem Himmel bist…" Schubert. 'Wandrers Nachtlied'. She has never heard that voice before. If she had she would remember it, and tears spring to her eyes with the aching sadness contained in those words, that voice, that beautiful voice tugging at her heart.
The song finishes while she stands there, spellbound and awe-struck, and almost immediately another one takes its place. This one she does not recognise, but there is that same haunting quality in it that makes her shiver. The singing flows over her, the voice so sweet and beautiful, and behind her eyes she sees desert lands and the setting sun casting long shadows of a horse and rider.
She does not realise that the song has finished until a soft voice calls her name. "Mademoiselle Daaé."
Her eyes open, and she blinks a moment as the world comes back into the view, the stage and the seating and a tall man in black. The singer. Surely it must be the singer.
Her head swims when she recognises Monsieur Delacroix, her thoughts a litany of Oh God it's over. This is it. You're finished. You'll never be back again. You've ruined everything. Why did you have to be so careless? And her heart pounds hard in her chest, her throat dry as she whispers, "Monsieur Delacroix."
The black mask leaves his face impassive, but his hazel eyes are gentle as he asks, "Mademoiselle, would you consent to let me help you with your singing technique?"
Her singing technique? But…she didn't sing. He sang, apparently. How could he have heard her sing? He never sits in on the chorus rehearsals!
"I—" Words fail her as she tries to frame her thoughts, but he nods slowly.
"I heard you. Yesterday evening, and the evening before, and the evening before. And many evenings now, all in a row. I think you have…wonderful potential, and, if you are willing, I would very much like to help you reach it."
Erik Delacroix is asking her for her permission to give her singing lessons? Has the world turned upside down?
She feels like she should have questions, feels like she should be suspicious, but her mind is too blank to think and all she can say is,
"Yes."
A/N: Title from Lisa Hannigan's song 'Tender'