Chapter 8 Salvation

As the wall paneling slid shut behind him, shielding him once more, Erik embraced the darkness of the passageway with a calming sigh, shutting his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again the one thought he'd been ignoring, the one idea that he'd been forcing silent, was the only thing repeating relentlessly in his mind.

Was it time?

He was tired of fighting, tired of frightening children, even tired of aggravating those of a lesser intelligence whose unchallenged arrogance used to fill him with such deep contempt. The simple joys he'd tried to fill his life with held no pleasure or release. Even music now tormented him – his own because he no longer seemed to be able to compose, and the music of the Opera House because its beauty had been ruined by the untalented cretins who now populated his stage.

If Marguerite had proved be even a passable talent it might have given him a reason to get out of bed every morning. At least he would have had something to do. But even a worthwhile occupation was to be denied him. And what else was there? Absolutely nothing.

He suddenly felt eons older than his thirty-four years. Every ounce of inspiration, drive and passion had been slowly bled out of him over the last few years by a world that would never accept him, until his very life-force lay in a dark crimson pool before him. There was nothing of promise ahead, only painful memories behind him. He'd spent his entire time there learning, voraciously reading, obsessively practicing skills and for what?

For nothing. For nobody.

He sank down against the wall behind him, putting his head in his hands.

What was there to fight for? What was there to hope for? His endless days were nothing more than a torment. It seemed he'd fought forever to push the darkness away. But for what possible reason should he continue that fight?

So perhaps, at last, it was time?

Time to board up his home, leave anything of value with Emilie and wait for black night to weave its final blessed embrace. It wasn't as if he didn't have the means to do so in his small medicine box. All he had to do was fall asleep...

A quiet acceptance of the inevitable stole over him as he got up slowly and began to walk back to his home. All he'd achieved since arriving here had been to exchange one cold, cruel, lonely cage for another. His gilded and glittering home was just a different kind of prison. From his nursery, to the fair, to the Opera – each was an empty, painful version of the other.

And even with his accursed face hidden, he still 'earned' his living by spreading fear and horror. How then, was he any different from the gypsies that paraded him for coins as a child? The thought filled him with revulsion, and he stopped, leaning one hand against the wall, feeling nauseous.

Then he heard it.

A voice. So sweet and pure. Untouched.

But who on earth was it? Where was it coming from? He was nowhere near the stage.

For the first time in his life, Erik groped blindly in the darkness, along the corridor. Dank puddles of water splashed, unheeded, onto his trousers as he stumbled forward.

The Chapel? But who ever went there to sing? The widow from the costume department was the only person he knew who went there regularly to pray, but she was easily in her fiftieth year or more? This voice was young, without corruption. And without any of the inaccurate restraints those who called themselves tutors within the Opera House would shackle it with either. The raw potential in it filled his heart with yearning.

He stopped again, the realisation taking his breath. There was one other who went to the Chapel regularly to pray for a loved one. But she was still a child, surely? He quickly calculated the years and discovered with a shock she must now be sixteen years old.

Taking a deep breath, he smoothed both hands back over his wig and straightened, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her, as he had Marguerite, only moments before. Regaining his usual composure, even as his heart still thundered in his chest, he moved silently towards the Chapel as her voice washed over him, eradicating the self-destructive despair of only moments before.

Reaching the metal grate that served as a window on the eastside of the small room, he took another moment, then moved out from the shadows covering him to look upon her.

His mouth fell open slightly as his breath left him completely. Not only a voice from heaven, but the face of an angel as well.

She sat on the other side of the Chapel, turned slightly from him, as his eyes devoured every inch of her. Light reflecting in through the coloured glass chased away the shadows caused by the flickering candlelight, making her pale skin almost luminous. Her large brown eyes were filled with happiness as her voice softly soared, her perfect mouth forming the words with a tenderness that threatened to make him moan aloud with longing. What would it be like to loosen the ribbons holding her tumultuous dark curls in check and fill his hands with her hair?

The thought brought him up sharp and he found, to his horror, that he was holding onto the metal grate with both hands. If she turned now, she'd clearly see him standing there, watching her. He let go quickly and moved into the shadows once more, falling back against the cold stone wall behind him. Something so beautiful should never be made to look on something so abhorrent, so unworthy in comparison.

How could he have never noticed her before? He cursed his bitterness towards Carlotta, knowing it was his hatred for her that had kept him blind to the true beauty before him. And Emilie – did she not know what talent her foundling possessed? Was she so prejudiced towards her own flesh and blood that Marguerite's meagre accomplishments and promotion meant more to her than Christine's?

Christine. Christine Daae. Her father the violinist, Gustave Daae, her mother – what happened to her mother? Suddenly aware how ignorant he was of her history; he grew desperate to know more. Emilie had taken her in, but there had been no formal adoption made of the child. She was as alone here as he was.

As his mind raced from one recollection to the next, he realised with a start that she'd stopped singing. She sat with her head bowed and stared down at her hands. "No," he said, before he could stop himself. "Don't stop."

She jumped up with a gasp, one hand flying to her heart.

'Oh God,' he thought, 'what have I done?' What could he say? What should he do? He couldn't bear to lose her now, not when her voice had just undoubtedly saved him from an early grave.

"Who is it? Who's there?"

For the very first time in his life Erik found he wanted to answer with his name. An inexplicable need for her to know him, to know everything about him, crashed through him, almost taking reason with it.

But years of rigid, self-inflicted conditioning kept his identity silent, and before he could even think of a different, more suitable reply, her whole face lit up in a blissful smile, her eyes shining as she clasped both hands before her breasts and he could say nothing - do nothing - but stare at her.

"Angel?" Christine asked, her soul soaring with hope. Could it be possible? Could it really be at last?

'What?' he thought, utterly confused. Did she really think? Of course - they were in a Chapel…

She furrowed her brow, the light in her eyes dimming slightly. "Are you the Angel of Music? My father, he said – " she could barely get the words out, knowing her heart would surely break if it were only one of the stage hands playing tricks on her again. "He said you would come."

An Angel of Music? What in God's name did she mean?

Christine lowered her eyes, shaking her head slightly, embarrassed; deciding the joy she'd felt from last night's dream had clouded her senses for the last time. Of course it wasn't an angel. That was a child's dream. The desperate longings of a girl who only ever thought of the past. Her father was gone and no matter how much she may wish for that last link to him to appear, it was impossible. She had to try and forget this nonsense. The last thing she wanted to do was give Roxanne even more ammunition to torment her with. Imagine if she came to hear of this? If whoever was hiding in the shadows was a friend of hers and told her of Christine's ridiculous question? This was no more than a boy from the stables, surely, or – even worse – was it Buquet, following her again?

He watched her face fall; uncertainty cloud her eyes; and a wound opened up inside him that only the return of her smile could heal. "Yes," he answered, his mouth suddenly dry. "I am the Angel of Music."

Her head shot back up, and she stared lovingly at the room around her, as if at any moment she expected her holy apparition to appear. "I knew you'd come," she said, smiling widely with relief, her heart about to burst with renewed joy. "If I wanted you enough, if I prayed for you enough."

Dear God, what had he done? For the first time in his life, he'd let his heart answer before his head had followed through every possible outcome. He should run, he should hide, forget this ever happened. Leave her to her daydreams and never think of her again. Yet how could he turn away, how could he stop watching her, when the light from her eyes would put a thousand stars to shame, even with tears of happiness forming in them? "What do you want of me?" he asked quietly.

She licked her lips nervously. Everything rode on her answer. For so long she'd believed her Angel had left her, thinking her unworthy, thinking her ungrateful for the lowly position she held at the Opera House. Humility was always the hardest grace to retain when those around her were promoted to positions far above her, leaving her in the shadows. Yet pride was such a sin. But if he'd finally appeared to her when he'd heard her sing…

She took a deep breath, wringing her hands together before her. He could see into her heart, she couldn't hide anything from an angel, as she couldn't from God. She had to speak only the truth. "I want to learn. I want to learn everything." Her voice grew stronger as she finally spoke her hopes aloud at last. "I want to be a great singer. I love dancing, I do, and I'm grateful for my position in the chorus, or at least – I try to be. But I want to sing. I want to be like La Carlotta."

He snorted with disdain. "You will far surpass Carlotta Giudicelli."

Her eyes shone with eager excitement; she could hardly believe her ears. "You could do that?"

'For you, I will do anything,' he thought. "Your voice has called an angel. I wouldn't come in vain," he said, putting strength into his words that he no longer felt before her.

Fear and delight warred within her at his reply. She paused before speaking again, not wanting him to think she doubted herself and her talent, and thereby his judgment in offering to teach her. "Of course," she said, lowering her eyes once more. "I'm sorry."

"No," he answered softly, longing to reach out to her, to touch her chin gently and lift her face back up to the light. "Never be sorry."

She swallowed with difficulty. His voice was so gentle, she could almost feel its tenderness within her. Yet she was terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing, of upsetting him and perhaps losing him already. "How will you, I mean - to teach me," she stumbled over the words, winding the fingers of her right hand through the ribbons on her skirt nervously. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, before asking quietly, "what would you have me do?"

He thought quickly. It was impossible to take her to his home. She must not see that, and she must not ever see him either. Hardly anybody ever used the Chapel. And he could always scare those that did into praying in a church outside of the theatre from now on, if need be. It was far enough away from the rest of the Opera House, it had easy passageways for him to use, the acoustics were wonderful, the walls thick. If she shut the door, they would be quite well soundproofed against discovery. No, it would be too obvious if he asked her to close it, she might grow suspicious, he'd have to find some way of doing it himself once she was there – make it look as if by a divine hand.

"You'll come here, of course," he said. "Each morning, early. Before this time by at least an hour." It wouldn't hurt to guard them further by arranging it for well before anyone who lived there awoke. His mind raced ahead as he went through each eventuality. "And you must tell no one of this. Not even those closest to your heart," he continued. 'Least of all, Emilie,' he thought ruefully.

"Oh, I know," she answered, faithfully memorizing each instruction, her body tingling with excitement. This was really happening; he was honestly going to teach her to sing. God, she could hardly breathe. "They wouldn't understand. They would think I was, well…"

'They would think you mad, as I must be, to be doing this,' he thought frantically. "They would not… believe," he said simply, continuing their charade.

"No," she answered sadly, knowing that though Meg often talked of ghosts, her fanciful beliefs did not extend to angels. "But what should I –"

"Be quiet," he hissed, tensing. He could hear somebody coming down the corridor towards the Chapel and was grateful that she unquestioningly obeyed his command immediately.

"Christine?" Meg called out down the stairway, "are you down there?"

Christine whirled around to face the door, her skirts swishing about her slender frame. "Yes. I – I'm just coming up."

But Meg's light feet had already carried her down the stairs and she came into the room in a flurry of tulle and golden curls. "There you are. Whatever's taking you so long? Maman is worried you won't have time for breakfast before we start."

Christine let herself be led out of the room as Meg took her hand and pulled her towards the stairway, never once stopping her chatter. She longed to stay there instead, forever with her Angel, though she knew it was impossible.

"She's not in the best of spirits this morning," Meg said, shaking her head. Even she feared her mother's stern manner at times.

"I do hope she isn't unwell," Christine said distractedly, looking back as they went up the stairs, wanting to see into the Chapel until the very last moment.

"Roxanne is crying after fighting with Henri last night, and you know how Maman feels about entertaining suitors so close to a new production." Meg sighed, though she honestly thought her mother's vexation had far more to do with the Ghost's letter that morning than the behaviour of her fellow ballerinas.

"Yes, of course," Christine replied, not listening to Meg at all. All she could think about was how long it would be before she could come back and hear that deep, hypnotic voice once more.

Erik watched her until the very last moment, then turned and walked angrily back to his home, arguing with himself all the way.