She knew it was dangerous to be walking alone that late, especially these days, but she didn't have enough change in her pockets to pay her fare, and she'd be damned if she spent one more minute in the hospital. So she decided to take her chances. The carving knife she'd taken to carrying (just in case) was safely sheathed under her coat, and Lord help her but if someone tried to interfere with her she would cut them. And everything was going well, the streets quiet and no one had attempted to accost her even as she sang an aria from Aida to herself, until she was ten minutes from home.

The air raid sirens went off.

She should have counted on that happening.

The shriek pierced her skull, and she was still singing as she stuck her fingers in her ears and ran. If she could just make it to a shelter before the bombs started falling—

A crash behind her drowned out her muffled voice, and heart pounding, lungs burning, voice shaking, she dived into the first cellar she found, throwing her hands out to catch herself.

Even as her voice shook, she kept singing, as if by stopping singing the bombs would fall right on top of her. Singing would keep her safe, singing has always kept her safe.

And that is how she finds herself, settling with her back to the wall in a cellar-who-knows-where, still singing Aida.

She almost jumps out of her skin when a man's voice joins hers from the shadows. Her voice falters, only for a moment, then picks up again, and he carries on singing as if she never made a mistake at all. The voice is gentle, sweet, and for one mad moment she thinks she has found an angel down here. But the thought disappears as soon as it comes. There can be no angels when there are bombs crashing on children.

So what is he? Who is he? A vagrant? Someone displaced in the bombing? A German spy laying low? Her hand tightens on the handle of her knife.

They finish the aria, and she is just about to ask him to reveal himself when her ears catch a shuffling movement. A flicker in the darkness, and the tiny flame of a lighter shows her a man, half his face wrapped in stained bandages.

His eyes widen to see her, and the light goes out.


A/N: Up next - Erik and Karim, hungover after a night of debauchery

"Were you wounded?" she asks, her voice low. The cellar shudders with the crash of another bomb outside.

"It—it was something like that." His speaking voice is softer than his singing one, so low she can scarcely hear it.

"I'm a nurse. If you want I—I could have a look at it, tend to it." It is right to offer help, the simple decent thing to do.

But the man sighs, and his voice is faintly roughened as if with tears when he says, "It would be a dearer comfort to me if you would sing. You have a—a very lovely voice."

"May I—may I ask what your name is?"

A pause and then, "Erik. My name is Erik. And you?"

"Christine." And she smiles. "Well, if it will help you to feel any way better, then I would be delighted to sing for you, Erik."

She hums a tune to get her started, and then she starts, the first song that comes to mind. "You go to my head, and you linger like a haunting refrain, and I find you spinning round in my brain, like the bubbles in a glass of champagne…"

She sings several songs, sings until her voice grows rough, until her eyes get heavy, and then she hums, tries to conjure pieces of music from her memory. Popular songs and classical tunes and opera music because if this man – this Erik – knows Aida then surely he knows others. Old folk songs. Some of Papa's pieces. Hums until she is too tired to hum any more.

The bombs are still falling outside, whining in the distance.

A rustle, and heavy fabric is laid over her, a coat.

"Sleep, Christine," Erik's voice is closer now than it was before, beside her ear. "Just sleep, and I'll keep watch. You've been very kind."

And then he softly starts to hum.


A/N: Up next - Hungover!Pharoga the morning after