Erik stared up at the theatre around him with unabashed wonder. This was his now, his kingdom, and beautiful music would rule. Even better, he had earned it because of his worth as a composer, not through trickery or bribery.
The wooden floorboards of the stage flexed under his shoes as if they were awakening at his touch, embracing the potential they found in him. The lights glowed down at him, their caress warming the uncovered side of his face.
He turned slowly on the spot, feeling the wonderful presence of the building itself, the anticipation held in every seat and the potential tucked behind each wing. Streets could change, faces come and go, entire countries pass him by; yet the theatre would always be a home waiting for him with open arms.
"Congratulations, old friend."
Erik glanced over his shoulder to see Nadir strolling down the aisle towards him, a wide smile on his face. A rare, genuine smile rose to his own lips, his heart light and a thousand ideas fluttering in his mind.
"Thank you," he replied, his voice soft but warm, like the glow illuminating the auditorium.
"It's nice to see you putting your talents to something ethical at last," Nadir said drily as he hopped up to join Erik.
Erik's smile faded a little, yet a playful spark remained in his eye. "I've done nothing but honest work since we came to Paris, I'll have you know."
"Right." Nadir rolled his eyes. "And my employment in Iran ended with a mutual parting of ways."
A grin recaptured Erik's expression. "Touché."
"Seriously Erik, I'm proud of you. You deserve a break, and I know you can create a spectacular show."
"Yes," Erik said, turning once more to view the whole stage. In his mind's eye dancers twirled across the boards, setting and props burst with colour, and a golden angel took her rightful place centre-stage. "I will make something wonderful."
"Again, with more gusto," Erik urged. "A gentle song can be beautiful, but the people at the back have paid to hear it too."
Christine smiled at him sheepishly. "Sorry. I guess the auditorium's rather bigger than my bedroom."
"You don't need to apologise, as long as you show me what you can really do," he replied, winking to reassure her there was no malice in his pestering. He dared to brush a hand against her shoulder in the pretence of comforting her, feeling the lightning dancing up his arm from the contact. Before he could lose his composure, he stepped back, dropping back down from the stage to his previous position before the orchestra pit. "Again," he encouraged.
The music struck up again, and his fantasy came to life once more.
Erik watched Christine singing and marvelled at the transformation she undertook. Her shoulders pushed back, her chin lifted and her gaze dared anyone to stop her. She truly became a different person when she sang, so alien from the timid girl she remained the rest of the time.
It wasn't just that she was a good actress or singer, she was a good performer.
In that moment, he didn't care whether Christine was his; he was satisfied that she was simply wonderful, and was grateful to have seen her bloom before his eyes. But then he glanced over to see Raoul stood in the wings, staring at her with awe and pride, and his own feelings soured.
For every compliment Erik bestowed on her, de Chagny was there with a dozen more. For every time her eyes met Erik's, they sought Raoul's out at least twice. For every stolen moment by her side, she granted him an hour.
The pair were falling for each other, it was plain to see, and Erik hated it.
In fact, he was so preoccupied with his loathing that he barely heard whether Christine was projecting her song this time. He forgot to check the positioning of the chorus. He didn't notice the falling piece of scenery until the actors had to dive out from underneath it.
"Christine!" Erik shouted as the roll of backdrop crashed to the floor, sending singers and dancers alike scattering. He heard the cry echoed from the wings, saw his own movement matched by a blur in the corner of his eye, yet didn't care anymore as he rushed onto the stage. All he needed to know was that his Christine was safe.
A blonde head rose, and slender arms pushed her up from where she had dived. "I'm alright," she said, her voice a little shaky but clear.
Raoul reached her side first, placing an arm around her shoulders and gently checking her for injuries. Instead of throwing himself to the floor where he clearly wasn't wanted or needed, Erik gazed at the scene around him.
"Is everyone else okay?" he asked in a measured tone, taking in the distressed crowd as they all gave hesitant nods. His expression turned stormy, eyes flashing and lip curling. "Good. Now who the hell is responsible for this?"
A few of the huddled cast members flinched as his voice rose, others lowering their eyes to escape facing his fury.
"Well?" he demanded when nobody answered.
"T-there's no one up there," a girl in glasses eventually stammered, her cheeks flushing scarlet as he turned to look at her.
"Where are the stagehands?" Erik fought to take some of the fire out of his voice, realising he was beating innocent people who had already been shaken badly enough. It wasn't easy, however, as his gaze was repeatedly drawn to Christine still curled on the ground. Christine, who could have been hurt. Christine, who was sitting so comfortably in another's arms.
He turned his gaze away as his heart gave a painful squeeze, looking instead to a bald man who hesitantly spoke into the silence.
"We're down here," he said, raising his head confidently despite his halting voice. When Erik didn't speak, he continued, "There are three of us in today, and we're all here." He gestured around at the stage, another man and a woman nodding in acknowledgement.
The frown on Erik's face deepened, and his eyes lifted to the walkway above the stage. No one was visible up there, not a trace of movement among the shadows. "Was everything secured when you last checked?" he asked finally, gaze still fixed intently upwards.
"Yes." The man shifted his feet where he stood. "Yes, I think so."
"You think so?" Erik echoed, his eyes fixating on the man again as a dangerous edge entered his voice.
"Well, we always keep it all safe…" The man trailed off anxiously, glancing to the other stagehands for support.
"We try to check everything." One stepped forward, setting her shoulders back as Erik's burning gaze turned on her. "But we're the only ones who go up there, so we must have missed something." She shrugged, though not in an uncaring way. "We'll be more careful in the future."
Erik nodded distractedly, his attention drifting upwards again. His eyes followed the path the backdrop had taken, saw the way it must have swung and come so close to where Christine had been standing. A weight like that could injure, crush and break - and it had fallen even harder and faster than he would have thought possible. He glanced down at her, unbidden images entering his mind of the hurt that could have befallen her.
"Be sure you are," he said shortly, closing that part of his mind off with a block like cold stone. "And get this all tidied up."
He would be stricter from now, more attentive to what was going on inside the theatre. Until now he had been naïve, thinking he only had to focus on the music and the performance. He had found musicians, singers, dancers, a conductor and a choreographer, stagehands and stage managers, costume designers and more. Their presence was not enough though; he would have to whip them up to a higher standard.
Erik looked once more at Christine, now seeming more relaxed and back on her feet again, but with Raoul's arm still around her shoulders. They had been lucky this time, but he would have to keep a closer eye on everything, keep her safe. He would protect her from everything, a guardian from a distance if that was what it took. She was worth more than the show, more than the whole theatre. She was worth more than music itself.
The man in dark clothes watched from concealment as everything on the stage was put back to order. He watched as the rattled performers tried to rehearse while constantly glancing over their shoulders. He watched as Erik finally gave up and sent everyone home, tension and responsibility visibly weighing down his shoulders.
It would have been so easy to attack now, so many clear shots passing by as Erik moved around the theatre and the city. But the man was not assured of his victory in a fight, remembering well the practised deadliness of the Shah's once-favourite pet. An attack from a distance only increased the likelihood of collateral damage and the risk of being spotted - Erik's success in his career may have enabled his discovery, but it also meant that he was almost constantly accompanied and watched by others now.
The man cared little for the consequences when he finally did strike, but being discovered would mean possibly being caught and certainly being fired - if not disposed of in some other way.
The man supposed he could hire help, then attack en masse when Erik was exposed, perhaps while alone in his flat. But that would mean expenditure, then splitting the reward, which he was reluctant to do. Besides, for every extra pair of hands there came an extra mouth to spill secrets.
No, the man would do this alone and in his own time. Murder was an art, after all, one not to be rushed.
This was just the start, and he would work his way up to the kill slowly. He would make Erik vulnerable, then make him disappear.
The 'accident' with the scenery had shaken even arrogant, proud Erik, not that he would show it to just anyone. But the man could tell, could smell the fear of his prey. And while Erik was distracted, focusing on the safety of the little blonde girl he seemed to worry for so much, the man would strike.
Erik's attention had always been easily turned by a pretty face or a prettier voice, despite the horror of his own appearance. This seemed to be more than a fleeting interest, however; the boy seemed to be almost obsessed with this one.
That obsession, that love - if that's what it could be called - would be Erik's downfall. This was not the last time the man would make him aware of the girl's fragility, her vulnerability. Little by little, he would wear down Erik's safety, his control, until he was confused and afraid and trapped by his own powerlessness. Erik's paranoia would only help the man's endeavours, as he would soon begin to see danger where there was none, be afraid of things no one else believed, and run himself ragged trying to protect what he held dear.
Erik may have been a decent fighter once, one of the best, but any ability can be weakened under enough pressure. The man wasn't certain he could beat Erik now, but by the time he was done, Erik would be a quivering wreck and he could finally watch the life drain from the wretch's eyes.
It would be a work of art.