A/N: Before we get into more nitty-gritty stuff with Erik and Nadir's story, I thought thus would be a good part of the story to take a deep breath and flash-forward for a moment and realize it all turns out ok. do not fret, however, we will return to the action soon enough.

Elocution

Paris 1881

At five minutes until seven, if asked, Christine would tell you that she was the image of patience as she waited in the small practice room. She would not tell you how she had to control her breathing to protect her nerves, or that her foot tapped anxiously in rhythm with the rapid beating of her heart. She certainly would not have told you about the poor, blonde man she had nearly trampled in her rush to arrive with a few minutes to spare. She would not have said how she had ignored him even as he called after her and she would not have have revealed how he had seemed oddly familiar.

When she had arrived, to her surprise, Madame Giry had been waiting, flipping through a thin novelette. Thankfully, Madame Giry did not ask any pertinent questions.

"Do not ask any questions of me, child. You will learn soon enough."

Christine had shut her mouth closed, as the Ballet Mistress cut her off, tone sharp, never having turned her eyes away from her story.

And so Christine had entered and she waited. Her heart's rapid beating finally slowed.

Lit by only a few candles, the room was completely silent. There was not even a clock to tell the passage of time. A small, upright piano took up most of the space, accompanied only by its bench and few extra wooden stools. By the entrance stood a coat rack and a tall, skinny mirror took up the far corner of the room.

To distract herself, Christine looked at herself in the mirror. It was hard not to judge her limp, lackluster curls or the dark circles under her eyes. She sighed.

Part of her still did not believe that this was happening. Why her? Christine Daae: The girl with a sweet voice, but it was a shame that it held only as much strength as her character.

When she had finally arrived home the night before, Madame Valerius had been sitting in front of the dying fire, knitting as she waited.

"You're home late." It was a question.

Christine hung her shawl on the pegs by the door. "I was told you had been informed of my tardiness."

"Yes, a nice gentleman came by this morning. Foreign. Polite. He mentioned that you were to be held up by business at the Garnier and then he left." She paused for a moment, but Christine remained silent, unsure of how to proceed, wavering by the door. "Christine?"

"There is a man." At Mama's quirked eyebrow, Christine clarified. She stepped forward and held out the papers with the vocal exercises. "Not Monsieur Nadir! No... not the man that came by. He has a friend... a tutor... and he... he wants to give me lessons. Singing lessons."

"I see," Madame Valerius said, disregarding the music sheets. "And you believe his interest in genuine?"

"I do not feel propositioned, if that is what you imply. " Mama nodded her approval. "But, Mama, I have not yet met him. I could not tell you in certainty."

"Then time will tell. I always knew someone would see in you what I always have. I may be nearly blind, but I certainly am not deaf, my dear." She came up, setting aside her needles. She cupped Christine's cheek in her palm. "And neither is the world."

Christine tore away, tears in her eyes. As she had ridden home in the cab, her initial excitement had begun to fade and a creeping doubt had begun to burgeon. "But, Mama! What if I can't? My voice... Ever since Papa died..."

Mama reached for Christine's sleeve, pulling her back gently. Enveloping her in a hug, she spoke softly into her adopted daughter's ear. "Do not entertain those thoughts, Christine. Fear does not stem from the heart. Do note indulge it. Listen to what this—" She laid a hand above Christine's chest "...Says instead. The pain will fade, but you must let it."

Christine hugged back, letting a single tear fall before wiping it away. She let out a strangled laugh to force the tears away. "I am being quite ridiculous. And I've already agreed. I couldn't back out now. It would be terribly rude of me."

"I didn't want to say it, dear." She gave one final squeeze and then pulled away, returning to her chair. "Now, tell Mama about your new Maestro!"

His name was Erik. Erik wore a mask. Erik was blind.

Of all these details, Christine only told Mama of the first. Christine, herself, wasn't sure how to feel about it. She did not want to put that burden on someone else quite yet. In one way, it was a blessing. She had been propositioned before, and it was refreshing to know that her interest was not shallow.

But she had no idea of the etiquette in his presence. Should she acknowledge it, or act as if she had no idea? Trying to find something to occupy her time and prevent overthinking, she opened the lid on the piano. Starting at middle C, she went through one of the few scales her Papa had taught her at an early age. She winced. Either her piano skills had become horribly rusty or the instrument was out of tune.

"We will not be needing that."

Christine jumped, an errant note sounding from the keys. She had not heard the door open. Seeing the figure before her, she stood hastily, smoothing down the skirt of her dress.

He was tall — much taller than her, certainly taller than her Papa. He did not, however, shrink away from his height. He instead appeared to overwhelm the small room, even with the nearly concerning slightness of his frame. Dressed as a gentleman from head to toe, the shine of his shoes matched his neatly pressed suit, covered with an embroidered cloak. Thin, black gloves completed the ensemble.

But as her gaze drifted towards his face, her breath caught at the sight of the off-white mask that covered nearly his entire face. She could not see beyond the shadow of his brow, cast in shadow from his wide-brimmed hat, but he was obviously inclined towards her.

She felt her heart beating rapidly in her chest, her stomach falling low in her gut. She had tried preparing herself the night before, imagining perhaps a sweet, old, man whose sight had faded with age, who had been perhaps been scarred in some war. Nothing in her imagination had amounted to this!

This was her teacher?

"You... you must be..?" She scorned her weak voice, but before he had a chance to respond rapid footsteps from the hall interrupted her.

"Erik! Will you never listen to reason? Did I not tell you to let me make introductions?" The exasperated voice was soon matched as Monsieur Nadir Khan flew into the entryway, breathing heavier than normal. "See, now you've frightened the girl!"

Erik turned to the Persian. "It is not my fault that your legs are short and lungs are weak."

"Erik..." His tone was scolding.

"I have not heard a limp body fall to the floor, so I do not believe she has fainted."

Monsieur Nadir snorted, shaking his head, but conceded. He turned to her. "Mademoiselle?"

"I... I'm fine, Monsieur Nadir," she assured him. "Simply startled is all."

"Then I must apologize for startling you," Erik responded gently. "It was not my intention."

Having initially been caught off guard, the beauty of his speaking voice had slipped her notice. Now, however, its sarcastic tone turning softer, its depth resonated in her ears, full and rich. Even when he jeered, it was captivating. But she preferred it so much more when as it softened. Hearing it, Christine felt her nerves calm.

"Very well then," Nadir cut in, clapping his hands together once, "Mademoiselle Daae, please let me introduce you to my—" He pursed his lips. "This is Erik. He will be the one tutoring you."

Do both these men share an aversion to proper nomenclature?

"It is a... pleasure to meet your acquaintance," Feeling as if her feet would finally listen, Christine stepped forward from the bench, raising an offered hand until she remembered. It swung back awkwardly to her side. Still, she curtsied out of habit. "Christine Daae."

At the sound of her voice, closer now, Erik lowered his head to "look" at her, although his hat still casted its shadow. "I would not be here if I did not know who you are, Mademoiselle, but you may call me Erik."

"Just Erik?"

"Just Erik. Or Maestro, if you prefer it." Christine knew that she would. The name would allow some medium of normalcy to the situation. He swung back to Nadir. "You have seen that she has not dropped dead from fright," he said impatiently. "You can go." He gestured towards the door.

The Persian ignored him, looking instead to Christine. "Now that you have... met Erik, you are sure you are still comfortable with this arrangement? You can say no at any time." Even with the mask, even with what she knew of him, she could sense the piercing glare that Erik casted at his friend.

Christine steeled her resolve, glancing between the two men. Already, she was invested, entranced by the strange man who had demanded to be her tutor.

You can do this.

"I have already made my decision. I do not need you to stay," she said, surprised by the firmness in her voice.

The Persian nodded his acquiescence. "Then I shall take my leave. Madame Giry remains just outside the door. I shall return in an hour." Nadir leaned into the masked man's ear, whispering something Christine could not hear. Erik clenched his jaw, but nodded. Nadir left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Christine heard a short, muffled conversation, then fading footsteps.

With Nadir gone, it was just the two of them. Erik stood like an awkward, dark statue in front of her, head now low, directed towards the floor. With a smooth movement, he removed his hat, exposing an expanse of sleek, dark hair.

Christine watched as he fiddled with the brim of his hat. His fingers skimmed over the edge for a moment before he stopped abruptly, clenching his fists over the brim.

He's just as uncomfortable as I am.The thought was oddly reassuring. She was not the only one completely at a loss.

She should say something, Christine realized, to break the tension in the room, but words escaped her at the moment, and so the silence grew.

"Guillaume Tell," he finally said softly. All air of bravado was gone, his tone rather... reserved.

"Pa... Pardon me?" Of course, she knew the opera. The company had performed it this last season. She had played a villager as part of the chorus, with a single, passing, solo line, but nothing notable.

"Your tone was pure, but you failed to project in the way I believe that you are capable. Your instrument is well crafted, but ill-practiced. Your breathing, your posture, pronunciation... these are all things that must be addressed. A few simple exercises will get us started."

Christine felt her cheeks burn, "You can tell all of that from all the way—"

"Yes, and more," Erik assured her.

"Your friend mentioned that you heard me first in the chorus, but even if you could..." She faded, rethinking her choice in words. "I don't believe that anyone could be able to pick out a single voice."

He sighed. "My... friend, to my expressed displeasure, has told me that he has already informed you of my... condition." He threw his hand up in a quick gesture towards his face. Before Christine had a chance to dwell on that, he continued. "One's ear compensates when another sense is lost. "

"Yes," Christine conceded. "But—"

"But enough of that," he cut her off. Undoing the button of his cloak, he pulled it off with a quick flourish. In a subtle move, he reached out towards the coat rack behind him, tracing to the center pole before reaching up to hang his garments. Christine did not miss as he patted them softly, as if encouraging them to stay.

He turned back towards her, straightening his jacket as he stepped closer. Christine drew back slightly, feeling as guilty as she was glad that he could not see her reaction. She doubted that she would ever get used to his overwhelming appearance, especially with the mask that hid every expression. She had so many questions, but none she dared ask. Luckily, the room was dim and Erik seemed to prefer the shadows. It allowed her to almost forget the mask.

Almost.

"I heard you and thought you were in sore need of instruction. Now I am here to teach you. The details are not important." He was even taller up close. And ghastly thin. Nearing the piano, he reached out with a searching hand. When he finally placed it on the dusty surface, however, he snatched it back, quickly pulling out a handkerchief with which to wipe his hand. "Now, you have warmed your voice?"

She did not intend to ignore his question, but she remained unconvinced, "But why me?" At the sound of her voice, Christine noted how Erik took a step back, as if not realizing that he had been standing so close. She did not want to frighten the man and softened her voice. "There are plenty of other singers who would certainly benefit more than I would. I do not believe my voice deserves such attention," she finished weakly.

"Do you believe La Carlotta would be so keen on my instruction, hmm?" He sneered. "You doubt my judgment?"

Christine winced. She had not meant to anger him, "No... I mean, I—"

He must have heard her discomfort, for his voice softened. "While your peers do not shy away from their voices, they do not share your potential. Now, when your maestro asks you a question, you will answer it."

"No," she sighed, feeling scolded. "I have not warmed up quite yet. I was too nervous before."

Erik nodded, "Perhaps that is fortunate. Best that we start from the very beginning. You may not believe it now, but there is a core of strength and power within you. You must simply learn to harness it. For that, you must start at the foundation. That would be your posture, the set of your jaw, and your breathing. Everything else follows from this. I may not be able to see it, but your voice paints a clear enough picture. Now, from the chest."

With Christine's first breath, Erik raised his head towards her, the movement so natural and accurate that Christine, had she not been previously warned, would not have suspected that he was... afflicted. But with the hat removed, the light from the candles reached the mask, illuminating what had been previously cast in shadow.

It was exquisitely crafted; more angular than what was natural, perhaps, and quite unsettling. Maybe one day she would grow accustomed to it. What was even more striking was his eyes. The center was opaque, cloudy scarring masking the majority of the pupil and iris. She could not make out the color of what was left of the iris, but the color was pale.

"Christine?" He had said something, Christine realized.

"Sorry," she apologized, embarrassed. He knew she was staring. "What was that?"

Erik sighed.

For the next forty-five minutes, Christine did not sing a single word. Instead, she was ridiculed on her posture and her breathing. How could a blind man even know what her posture was like? All the sympathy she had previously felt for the man quickly left her as he berated her technique. The man was an absolute perfectionist.

Her posture was sloppy. He knew the exact when when her head would dip or her shoulders fell forward. Her breathing was too shallow, too irregular, then too deep, too forced. They started with simply rhythm in breathing, which was simple enough. Then they turned to the depth of her breathing…

Over and over he told her to breathe from her diaphragm, yet she was unable to translate this concept into form.

"Come now, Miss Daae. It truly is not very difficult! From here like this." He pressed directly below his own sternum, taking a deep breath. "See? Keep you shoulders still and imagine a pig's bladder expanding with air inside you." Christine shuddered at the thought. "Now, again."

Christine took another breath.

"No. You are wheezing" He interrupted before she was even able to breath out. "Relax your airway. Again."

Christine was able to exhale this time before Erik again criticized her.

"Stop." Erik waved a hand in the air. "Are you even trying? Or simply doing the exact opposite of what I suggest?"

Christine shut her mouth closed. She could feel her ears burning with embarrassment. At least Erik couldn't hear that. She couldn't take this. It was just breathing.

"Again," Erik said. Christine stayed silent. "Again."

"This is a mistake," Christine said. "I can't… I'm sorry. Whatever you think I am… I'm not." Christine leaned down to grab her bag. With it thrown over her shoulder, she moved to bolt past Erik.

She did not make it far, however, as a hand reached out and grabbed her arm. She gasped, looking up at the man who detained her. As quick as the hold had come, it was released, Erik removing his hand as if it had been burned.

"I... I am truly sorry, Mademoiselle," he rasped. With the mask, Christine did not know had Erik managed to have a look of such abject horror on his face. It almost made her forget her own fears.

"I... should not have... You can go," Erik said brokenly, turning away towards the panel.

Christine wanted to flee. She wanted to run from the room and never return. She would not even return to the Opera House. This lesson had taught her that she certainly did not have the talent for it.

Yet, she hesitated. This man, who seemed too powerful and enigmatic, was also so very human. He also knew more about musical technique than anyone she had ever met. Yet, he had chosen her.

In that moment, that twisted feeling in Christine's stomach faded. It finally felt like she was able to breathe.

"What am I doing?" She asked softly.

For a long moment there was silence, then slowly Erik turned back around.

"You are not..." Erik began.

"No," Christine cut him off mid-sentence. His mouth hung open for a second before snapping shut. "I did not ask was I was doing wrong. I want to know what I do."

Erik nodded solemnly.

"You are empty," he began softly. "It is not just your jaw or your diaphragm, but your very soul. It robs you of your strength. Even if you do not believe it of yourself quite yet, that strength lies within you. I see it, even if I can see nothing else."

Christine certainly did not know how to process that.

"But... But how? "

Erik shook his head slowly, then glanced up, his unseeing eyes matching hers. "Christine," he said in a manner that Christine could not quite describe, but which left a lasting imprint which she would need to contemplate at a later time. "You ask me how I plan to give you back your soul?"

"I.. no… I…" Christine stammered, at a loss for words. That truly was a ridiculous notion.

"The lesson is over," Erik said curtly. "I will give you the tools. I will share with you my techniques. And if all goes as I believe it shall, I will give you back your voice. It is, however, up to you if you choose to fuel it with which you believe that you have lost."

For a long moment, Christine was silent. Suddenly, the stitching of her shoes was very intriguing.

"That is all." Erik's voice brought her out of her reverie.

"I... Will..." she stammered, embarrassed. Finally, she gathered herself. "Thank you," Christine said with forced calm. "I will see you tomorrow." And she left.