Eight year old Christine Daaé huddled closer to her father as he stopped near an alley to talk to an old woman. When they had been shopping in the market not too long ago, she had known why he was buying an extra loaf of bread, but she hadn't known who it was for. She held tight to his hand and hid her face behind his arm - the old woman frightened her. Her face was weather-worn and wrinkled, and her hair was messy and her clothes were patched - she looked just like the witch in one of her storybooks.

She glanced up at her Papa, who was smiling and talking to the woman as though nothing were out of the ordinary about her and Christine felt a small pang of guilt for how she felt. Nothing ever seemed to scare Papa, and she hoped that one day she could be brave like him.

Their talk was mostly tuned out by her as her impatient young mind wandered to topics other than whatever her Papa was telling the woman about - little Christine had no interest in Gustave Daaé's conversation with the lady who might actually be a witch. All she wanted was to be home once again in the little cottage, out of the bitter wind that was chilling her. She briefly wondered if the beggar woman was cold too, if she had a place to stay warm during the night, but then a great black bird landed nearby and caught her eye, causing her thoughts to wander once more.

She felt a tug on her hand and distantly heard Papa and the woman exchanging goodbyes, and she pulled her focus away from the bird. They were walking down the street once more, and Gustave finally noticed the way his daughter's brow was furrowed.

"Christine," he asked gently. "What's the matter? Are you afraid that crow is going to follow you?"

"No, Papa!" she cried. "I'm not afraid of birds anymore!"

Even so, she quickly glanced behind her to maker certain the huge bird wasn't following her.

"You're not? Since when?" he teased her.

She jutted her chin out.

"Since last week."

"Oh my, I see," he nodded. "Because you turned eight last week?"

"Yes," she agreed, glad that he always understood her so well. "I'm a big girl now, and I'm not afraid of birds anymore... Even though they can be really scary sometimes," she added solemnly.

"Of course. So nothing is wrong, then?"

She hesitated, embarrassed, but Papa never made her feel like she was silly for how felt.

She felt silly all the same.

"That old lady," she started, uncertain. "She looked..."

Christine ducked her head.

"She looked like a witch," she whispered.

Gustave couldn't help but smile.

"Did she? Well, I suppose she did," he said.

Christine looked up, surprised.

"Weren't you scared of her, Papa? What if she really was a witch?" she scooted closer to him, suddenly fearing that the witch would send a crow after her.

"No, I wasn't scared," he glanced down at her. "But it's normal to be frightened, sometimes. That's okay. But I think she's just an old lady who's had a difficult life."

"Really?"

"Really. Remember before we could afford the cottage? How hard it was to always stay looking nice?"

She nodded. She remembered very well. There had been a great deal of times that they, too, had to sleep out in the cold.

"I'm sure there were times we looked like trolls!" he smiled, and Christine giggled.

"Papa, no!"

"Yes, Christine! Like trolls who lived under bridges and ate little children!" he lowered his voice to monster-like growl and scooped Christine up into his arms.

She squealed with laughter as he spun her around before setting her back down.

"But we weren't trolls, were we?"

She shook her head, grinning.

"Even though we looked like them?" he pressed.

"No, Papa - we were just Christine and you. Even if we looked like nasty trolls," she wrinkled her nose.

"Exactly," he nodded decisively. "Sometimes people can look scary on the outside, but they're just like you or me on the inside."

Christine considered this.

"That old lady is probably just like us," she said, then suddenly looked up at Papa, worried. "Do you think she has somewhere to stay tonight? Not out in the cold, surely?"

He smiled, and patted her shoulder.

"She has a place to stay, don't worry."

Christine had been so consumed with the crow across the street that she hadn't known that Gustave had given the woman enough coins to rent a room at the inn for a few days.

"That's good," she nodded. "Are we going to bring her more bread the next time we go to the market?"

She thought of all the times kind strangers had given them food when they didn't have any.

"Yes, and some cheese and fruit, too. Would you like to help pick it out?"

She nodded eagerly.

They entered the little cottage and Christine started the fire just like Papa had taught her. They ate their supper, and afterwards Gustave played the violin while Christine practiced her singing. Soon it was time for bed, but a concern was steadily growing in her mind, one fed by the darkness pressing in around them against the few candles they had lit. Her Papa's explanation earlier, out in the bright sunlight, was suddenly less convincing in the nighttime.

She said her prayers by her bedside, then climbed under the covers. Papa came by to tuck her in and tell her a bedtime story as he always did, but she knew she had to ask her question before he started.

"Papa," she said in a small voice. "I know it's good to help people, but what if that lady really is a witch? Isn't it safer to not help her, just in case?"

"I'm very sure she's not a witch just because she looks like one," he said gently as he sat on the edge of her bed. "Do you remember what the Good Book says, Little Lotte? Whatever you do for the least of these-"

"You have also done unto Me," Christine finished, and nodded.

"That's right," he smiled. "No good is ever wasted, Christine, or lost or forgotten, even if it seems like it was - not if it was done with a pure heart. Helping someone not because they can ever pay you back, and not because you're expecting a reward, but just because they need help and you're in a position to give help - that's a very noble thing, don't you think? When you do something like that for someone, you're not just doing it for them - you're doing it for the Lord, too. If we're kind to someone just to be kind, then we've done the right thing, even if she is a witch."

He paused a moment, deep in thought.

"It's very hard for some people - people who don't look like everyone else, people who are different in some way. They're easy to be cruel to, by purpose and even just by overlooking them."

Christine had inherited her mother's pale complexion and light hair, so unlike his own. He took after his own mother, a Romani traveler. Things had not been easy for her, and things had not been easy for Gustave, especially when his wife had passed away it had become just him and Christine. A man who looked suspiciously Romani with a little girl who had blonde hair and blue eyes? Surely not his own child, was it? He had tried to shield Christine from much of such talk, but there were many, many times that help had been refused to them because people could only see a filthy foreigner who had stolen a child (never mind that Gustave had been born in Sweden, never mind, even, that his mother had been born in Sweden too). He was glad that such days of relying on the help of others were behind them, but he would never forget what it was like to be treated that way.

"But all people have equal value - even the forgotten ones and the ones that the world overlooks. God loves them all the same, and we're called to do likewise... Besides," a grin formed on his face. "If she really is a witch, then it would do us well to be on her good side, don't you think? She won't curse us if we're nice to her!"

Christine laughed, her fears forgotten.

"Now, what story do want to hear?"

Her eyes lit up.

"Tell me the one about the Angel, Papa - the Angel of Music!"

"The Angel!" he chuckled. "How did I know it would be that one again?"

"Because it's the best story," she whispered, pulling her blankets up around her.

"Very well then. This is a story," he started. "That takes place a long, long time in the future. At first it seems scary! It's so scary, it's almost too much! What do you think is happening to our brave heroine, Christine Daaé, in the very distant future?"

He asked, as he always did when he told the story of the Angel of Music, and as always she participated and came up with a different scenario each time.

She furrowed her little brow, thinking hard.

"There's a crow," she said finally, then quickly added, "Oh! But that's not why I'm afraid of it! The crow is actually an evil witch who wants to eat me!"

"There's an evil witch disguised as a crow who wants to eat Christine up for dinner!"

She gasped.

"But do you think the witch crow eats her up?"

She shook her head fervently.

"And do you know why not?"

"The Angel," she whispered.

"That's right! Just when Christine thought all hope was lost and there was no way out, that's when the Angel appeared. An Angel sent from Heaven to protect her and keep her safe. Even though it's scary, and difficult, the Angel won't let any harm come to her. Christine will be able to make it through all of the hard times because she has her Angel with her."

Christine pulled her blanket up to her chin.

"And the music?" she asked in a small voice.

Gustave smiled.

"And the music - the music Christine thought she had lost forever - well, Christine will be able to hear the music again. The Angel of Music will make certain of it."

Christine smiled as she closed her eyes. She lived and breathed music - and her Papa did too. It was one of the ways she felt closest to him. He had told her, too, that her departed Mamma had also loved music very much. Scarcely an hour passed where Christine did not think of music in some way - she loved to sing, and to try to play her little violin just like Papa did. She frequently came up with little songs of her own. She had done so for as long as she could remember, because she had always been able to hear music everywhere, all around her - the carriages in the street, the voices in the market square, the birds in the air, the wind in the trees, music, all of it music, so how could she not sing along? But there had been times in her life when, during great difficulties and times of uncertainty, she hadn't felt like singing because she could no longer hear the music all around her. There was no music when her tummy hurt from not eating all day, or when she was cold because they had to sleep outside again, or when she was frightened after someone had thrown rocks at them. She would weep during times like that, afraid that music had abandoned her forever. What would life be like if music was gone, never to return? The thought terrified her.

But this - Papa would not lie to her, she was certain of it. And he had promised the Angel would appear, one day.

"The Angel of Music will help Christine find the music even when she can't see it, even when she thinks it's gone away. And the Angel will bring new music to her, as well! Such music like she has never heard before! The music of Heaven, and Christine will know peace because of it."

Peace and music and safety. Christine hoped so. One day. She was a little sad that things had to be scary again one day - she was happy and safe right now, wasn't she? Why did that have to change? Why couldn't the scary part all be behind her? - but if they did have to be scary, at least she could face them with her Angel by her side.

"What's the music of Heaven sound like, Papa?"

"Well, you have to wait for the Angel to show you," he chuckled. "But what do you think it sounds like?"

"Hmm. I bet it sounds really nice."

"I bet it does, too. Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight, Papa. I love you."

"I love you too, Christine."

Christine had waited so patiently, desperately, for the Angel after her father had died a few years later. The Angel had not appeared. She came to terms with the lack of the Angel a few years that, realizing that Papa had been speaking in a metaphorical sense - there was not going to be an actual angel that showed up, but he had been trying to tell her, in a way that could comfort a child, that no matter what she went through in life that she'd eventually find her song again.

Twenty years after that long ago night that she had been frightened by the thought of a homeless woman being a witch, she sat in the chair of a strange masked man and wept tears of joy.

Papa had sent the Angel.

Oh, she knew that Erik was a man of flesh and blood, a human being just like her. He had no divine origin, not any more than she did. She knew, now, that the Angel of Music was a metaphor. But still-

Erik was the Angel of Music. She was certain of this.

More than one thing could true at one time, could it not?

Erik looked uncomfortable as he watched her. She smiled at him and laughed a little - she knew she must look a fright, or perhaps seem a little unhinged.

Erik pressed his lips together and squeezed his hands into fists over the keys to hide how they trembled.

"I hardly think I qualify as an angel, Christine," he said quietly. "I don't think an angel would cause people to scream in fear upon seeing it."

She chuckled as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Haven't you read the Bible before, Erik?" she teased gently. "Do you know what the first thing is that an angel always says when they appear before a human? It's 'fear not' - and I'm sure there's a reason."

Was that so? His mind reeled.

"I'm- Christine, I'm not an-"

She waved a hand at him.

"Erik, I know. It's this old story Papa used to tell me when I was a little girl. About how an angel would come to me in my darkest hours and comfort me, and keep me safe from people who wanted to hurt me, and how the angel would make sure I didn't lose my music even if it seemed like I'd be too upset or stressed to ever sing again."

She wiped at her eyes.

"And that's you, Erik. You're the Angel of Music."

Erik ducked his head, hoping she wouldn't see the tears forming in his own eyes. Could she truly think of him as an angel? How?

His mind took him back decades ago, to his last public performance - indeed, the last time he played for anyone - and to what had been said then.

He had been in Persia for several months at that point, designing the new palace for the Shah. He had somehow also become quiet well known for his illusions and parlor tricks, though anyone brave enough to ask to see one was few and far between.

People were wary of him in Persia, though he tried to be nice to them. People were wary of him everywhere he went, it seemed.

There was, of course, the Daroga, whom he had met back in Russia. Nadir seemed quite content to follow him about, and didn't shrink from his mask - or from his temper. They were friends of a sort, he supposed. He had never had a friend before.

Sometimes he wished he didn't have a friend at all, especially when he'd barge in right as Erik was playing the violin. But it was nice, in a way, even still. It was even nicer when Nadir had shown him all the instruments he'd never seen before, and even showed him to play some of them.

Nadir entered the room Erik was in, but he wasn't there to discuss music, not this time.

"The Shah wishes to see you," he told Erik, his face solemn, and he hesitated before adding, "The Khanum wishes to see you, as well."

Erik's heart sank. He had a feeling he knew what it was about - the Khanum had been trying for weeks to convince him to become an assassin for the throne. Erik had killed before, yes - but it was a very different thing to defend himself against a man who was intent on killing him first than it was to seek out and end a political opponent. It made him uneasy. If he did that, he would surely be the monster everyone said he was. He wanted to better himself, not to sink lower into depravity.

"You don't have to accept her proposal, if she offers," Nadir whispered to him as they approached the throne room.

He had been there on a few occasions the job had been offered to Erik, and even though advising him against it might be dangerous if the Khanum found out, he was deeply uncomfortable with the idea that he had brought this young man here from Russia only to have him end up a murderer.

Erik was silent.

They entered the throne room.

Erin stood before the Shah and the Khanum, all too aware of how many eyes were on him.

"Your designs for the new palace are lovely, Erik," the Shah told him. "I had not imagined that a thing of such beauty could exist. In addition to your payment for the design, I also wish to offer you a gift. What would you like, Erik?"

"A gift?" Erik repeated.

"Of course. Anything, yours for the asking."

"Anything?" his eyes lit up, hopeful yet nervous.

The Shah grinned.

"You don't have to be afraid to ask for it, Erik. Would you like, perhaps, a girl from the royal harem?"

Erik glanced at the harem girls who were standing beside the Shah's throne. Their eyes went wide, and several scrambled to hide behind the others, frightened of being given to this strange young man who wore a mask, but one or two looked curious, intrigued. They were all quite lovely, even he could see that, but-

"I have no interest in girls, your highness."

The Shah laughed.

"Boys, then? We can find you a lovely boy, I'm sure-"

"No," Erik cut him off. "What I want is a piano."

A hush fell over the court.

"A piano?" the Shah frowned.

The Khanum sat up straight, eyes sparkling.

"Oh," she said in a strange voice. "Do you play the piano?"

"Yes," Erik felt wary, but he really wanted that instrument. "I mean, I used to. I haven't for a while. I've been looking for one since I got here, but haven't been able to find one yet."

Her fingers curled around the armrests of her throne.

"Ahh, we can get you a piano," she purred, and Erik's uneasiness returned. "But - if we give you this gift, you must promise to put on a little recital for us. What do you say, Erik?"

Erik stared. He knew something didn't feel right, knew it was a trap but he didn't know how. It had been years since he'd played a piano, and his fingers were itching to do so again.

"Yes," he finally said. "If you find me a piano, I'll play it for you."

The Khanum grinned. She had heard rumors about this odd man's talent with music, and she dearly wanted to hear him play... Almost as dearly as she wanted to see what was under that mask.

It was not two days later that the piano was set up in one of the grand rooms of the Shah's palace. Erik entered the room cautiously, quickly taking stock of who was there - the Shah and Khanum, of course, and Nadir, a number of servants and page boys and harem girls, all of them presumably there because they wanted to hear Erik play. He smirked. Persia had beautiful music, but he was quite certain that none of them had heard anything like his music before.

He clutched his sheet music to his chest - his very own compositions - and bowed theatrically to the Shah and Khanum.

"I must thank you immensely, your majesties," he said politely. "For this very lovely piano and the opportunity to play a few humble pieces of my own for you all."

They nodded, and he sat down at the piano with a flourish, placing the sheet music in front of him.

"Erik," the Khanum said sweetly.

He paused.

"Do please take off your mask first."

"What?" he momentarily forgot his manners.

"Take your mask off before you play," she ordered, smiling.

Erik blinked fast.

"Erik, you are not to touch that piano until you remove your mask."

"I don't- I can't-"

She tutted.

"After all the work we went to to get you this piano, this generous gift for you, and you don't like it? Well, we can always dispose of it, if you prefer," she motioned for her servant to step forward, and he approached the piano with a small torch, ready to set it ablaze.

"No!" Erik shouted, springing up and trying to ward the man off.

"Will you indulge an old woman in her fancy, then? I think it's only polite to not hide away like that, and it's a very simple request, after all," she wheedled.

He sat back down heavily and glanced around the room. Nadir was frowning hard, his arms crossed - he had warned Erik about such situations with the Khanum - what had started out under the pretense of giving him a gift could (and had) quickly turned to a situation where, with one wrong move, he could end up executed.

The people in the room shifted uneasily - there had been much talk of what could possibly be under that mask. Some thought it was a birth defect, or an injury, pointing out what looked like burn marks or rashes on his neck when his cravat slipped down, and others still said that he looked completely normal and only wore the mask to intimidate or hide his real identity.

Erik could see no safe way out of this. He reached a trembling hand up to his face, pausing, not believing he was really doing this.

He removed his mask.

A girl screamed. There was a collective gasp and noises of revulsion as people turned away from him. Erik didn't let his eyes linger on any one person for too long - he had seen enough reactions to his face to last him a lifetime - but he did look at Nadir, who was looking down at his own feet and seemed a little pale. Erik's heart twisted. He shot a menacing look to the Khanum, whose eyes had widened as a grin spread across her face. She let her eyes linger on that wrecked visage, taking in each feature or lack thereof. The Shah sat beside her, up until that moment seeming only bored, but now he stared at Erik with the most peculiar expression, as though he were seeing something terrible but could not look away.

"Now play," the Khanum's voice wrapped around Erik like a velvet noose.

His shoulders stiff and his hands still shaking, he tried to focus on the sheet music in front of him but it kept blurring in and out of focus. He set his hands to the keys and began to play.

He poured his soul into his music that evening, as though if he only played well enough and with a deep enough emotion, it could make up for the fact that he was the one playing it.

The girls refused to look at him, but they clasped their hands over their hearts, touched at the beauty pouring forth from the instrument, from him. The page boys dared glances at him, entranced. Nadir focused on how his hands flew across the keys, pointedly avoiding his face but still wanting to support his friend. The Shah leaned forward, a fraction of his horror drowned out by wonder. The Khanum was, of course, delighted.

He played half a dozen songs of his own creation, and towards the end he almost forgot he was without his mask.

It was finally over, the last notes ringing out and echoing into the distance, and he glanced up to see what the Khanum's verdict was. More than one of the servants was wiping a tear from their eye, and Nadir looked proud.

The Khanum maintained eye contact with Erik.

"What beautiful, sensual, inspired music," she drawled. "Truly the music of Heaven, of an angel!"

She paused. Erik felt relief, for a moment. She had loved it! It had gone just fine!

And then, with her next few words, his entire world came crashing down and shattered.

"What a strange twist of fate," she grinned wickedly. "That the music of an angel should reside inside of a demon."

He tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. He could feel the hot tears running down his face and fumbled for his mask, embarrassed and ashamed. A mistake - this had all been a mistake. He never should have asked for the piano. He grabbed his sheet music and nearly ran out of the room, the laughter of the Khanum following him.

Nadir didn't get a chance to follow him until nearly half an hour later. Erik's door was unlocked, so he knocked loudly before entering. There was no response, and as he walked through the little house he was struck by the thought that it looked like someone had broken in and destroyed everything. Table and chairs overturned, dishes and knickknacks smashed on the floor and counter. His dismay only grew when he found Erik sitting on the floor of his bedroom, maskless and smoking something from a hookah, sitting in front of a large dish with its contents on fire.

Those yellow eyes met his with a challenge, and Nadir did his best not to flinch away as he knew Erik was expecting.

He took a long drag of the hookah.

"Well, well, well," he said on a exhaled could of smoke. "If it isn't the Daroga."

Erik tossed another piece of paper onto the fire. Nadir suddenly realized it was his sheet music, the ones with handwritten notes. His eyes went wide.

"Erik no!"

All that music, gone forever now.

"Why not?" he snapped petulantly, and Nadir's brow creased - what, exactly, was in that hookah? Did it account for the wild look in his eye?

"Erik, what happened?" he pleaded. "This isn't like you."

"You don't know me," he scowled. "Did you know, for example, that I was a demon when you first met me in Russia?"

Nadir was at a loss.

"You aren't," he insisted. "You don't have to be, just because she said-"

"I gave them my music," he was on the verge of sobbing. "I gave them my very soul condensed into keys on a piano, and even still- it wasn't enough- I'm still-"

A look of such anguish passed across his features, made all the worse by his lack of a nose, a look that seemed to hold all the sorrow of the world.

His countenance turned cold and aloof.

"Erik gave them his soul this night," he whispered. "And Erik is dead."

He dipped a stave into the flames and held it up, watching the flame eat away at the work he had once been so proud of.

"And all that is left," he continued quietly. "Is a phantom. A demon."

Nadir could feel his own heart breaking, and he fumbled for something to say.

"She didn't mean it like that," he hesitated. "She likes the macabre, Erik."

He glared at him as he took another deep drag of the hookah, and Nadir flinched.

"She- she likes your face," he rambled. "She meant it as a compliment. And your music really was lovely, so please, please don't destroy it-"

He let the last scrap flutter down to the bowl on the ground a second before the flames could reach his bony fingers, ignoring Nadir.

He watched the paper curl and turn black, just like his hopes of ever bettering himself. He had given them the music of Heaven, and still all they could see before them was a demon. Well, if they wanted to see a demon, he would show them one.

His next words, uttered between furious drags of the hookah, made Nadir's blood run cold.

"Go tell the Khanum," he said firmly. "That I accept her proposal."