Disclaimer: Same as before applies…

Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

Chapter 5: Angel of Music

Eric walked to the wall at the foot of her mahogany bed.

"There is a door, but it is hidden. Not from the outside, it's just that there's no handle - ah!" A door swung wide open, and he flashed a confident grin in her direction. "I'll be right back!"

She returned the smile, settling back in to wait. Her eyes fell upon a tiny beside table, a charming lamp shedding a soft light onto her pillow. And next to it was a gilded silver brush and mirror, which she hadn't seen before. She carefully picked up the brush, noting there was elegant, spidery cursive worked into the design. The mirror was shaped in a manner reminiscent of a heart. Each curl and spiral in the design had its own beauty; no two were the same. It looked like a handcrafted good from one of the street vendors in the marketplace.

The door opened, and she was surprised to see the Opera Ghost. He was dressed in black formal evening wear, his white mask refreshingly contrasting against the darkness. He even wore gloves, accenting his slender and graceful fingers. Much like Eric's fingers were. He stood very straight, and curtly inclined his masked face, acknowledging her.

"I am much relieved that you have joined us, Mademoiselle. I am afraid your friend was distressed over your poor health. I… hope you might overlook my previous conduct towards you." He seemed genuinely saddened over that last statement, apparently unable to keep a hint of contained anger from creeping into his voice unconsciously. She managed as bright a smile as she could muster.

"I don't think I can thank you enough for your kindness, Monsieur… Opera Ghost." She paused for a moment. "I have no honey cakes to make up for the trouble I've caused." She could not tell by his expression whether he remembered the incident. He shifted uncomfortably, it seemed to her, and remained silent, his hands clasped behind him.

"Monsieur, I was just curious… What does this read?" She lifted the brush, leaving the mirror facedown.

"Christine," was the reply. He did not even bother to look; he knew what she referred to.

"How did you…" She paused, her bewilderment bordering fright. "I mean, who told… he…"

"They were made that way." He replied, a defensive tone creeping into his voice. After a moment of silence, a childish curiosity replaced the hostile edge.

"Is… that your name, Mlle.?" She nodded.

"Oui. Well, in a manner of speaking. I mean, when I was found by Jacques, that's what he called me. He said it was pretty."

"Indeed, Christine is a beautiful name." He paused, deciding to take on a lighter subject. "I would be correct to assume your friend informed you of our bargain?"

"Partially."

"Ah, I see… You may stay for as long as you wish until you have recovered. Once you are well, you must audition for a spot in the chorus at the Opera. I have no doubt that there will be a place for you. I will instruct you in music if you or I feel such lessons are necessary. However, once you leave the confines of these apartments you would be wise not to mention me or my home. It will only bring you disaster." He unclasped his hands and reached for the invisible door. "Sleep well." He said, his voice empty of all emotion. Then he left.

* * *

Erik paced his room, his fingers involuntarily twisting themselves around each other as he walked. He could not remember a time he had been this disoriented, this out of control. His impulse was to hang the two brats; he felt an irrational need to lash out at someone. They had disrupted his peace, his suicidal solitude. They had waltzed into his home without him knowing of it. How could he let them slip through like that? He had constructed these tunnels under the Opera when he had been a contractor… he had made these walls empty, his mysterious construction allowing them to carry sounds back to his lair. He knew when his domain was being invaded, and he always purged the tunnels when intrusions took place. How was it that he had overlooked the two?

He was irritating himself with his pacing. He sat and leaned forward, his bony elbows resting on his knees, his slender fingers tapping against each other as his chin lay on his thumbs. He tried to think, settling himself down as best he could. The reason for his agitation was hard to locate; his mind was in turmoil.

He could picture it all, as clearly if it was happening again. Raoul stood there, powerless, waiting for Erik to finish him off. Then there was her, Christine Daaé… her eyes, her hair, her voice, the soft but sweet scent that accompanied her presence… the mere thought of her intoxicated his senses. He knew that if he could only have her, he would need nothing else in the world.

He didn't have her. Raoul did.

She had begged with Erik, pleaded with him. She had cried, she cried over her beloved Raoul's fate. And yet, if she had not loved him, it wouldn't have come to this. If she had only loved Erik instead…

It wasn't as though he hadn't given her a choice. If she married him, her lover would live. Otherwise, it was guaranteed death. It had been so easy to threaten the man he hated… so easy to break her heart. Christine had cried said she hated him.

All he had ever done was love her, and she hated him. All he asked was for someone to look beyond his hideous face and cradle his mutilated soul. He often fancied that his heart was as deformed as his horrendous countenance, capable of nothing but hatred. He found a sick pleasure when he realized he was able to frighten anyone he chose. The satisfaction was temporary though, and no matter how hard he tried it always fell short of camouflaging the loneliness constantly devouring his insides.

After Christine Daaé had run from him, he had tried to hate her. He was sure that it would be like hating everyone else - and hadn't that come naturally? There wasn't a time he could remember being unable to bring out his darker side; he had never failed yet. Until now. Things would have been simple if he had managed to be disgusted by her. It would have been black against white, night against day, cut and dry - in terms of cliché images. If only that was how things really worked.

Instead, he found that each day cried out for her presence, every moment shouted for her voice. It had slowly driven him mad, until he could swear she had returned. He could hear her talking; she was in the room where he had left her, tied to the chair so she wouldn't leave him…

She had wanted to kill herself. She would rather be dead than be with him. Perhaps the reasoning behind her actions hadn't sunk into his mind because he was so used to the dark thoughts himself. She had told him before that his face did not scare her, and he had so foolishly believed her. He clung to that lie, more convinced of its truth than of his own existence. Perhaps that was why he did not see the fear with which she looked at him - because he chose not to see it. He so desperately needed to be loved he was willing to overlook anything. It was revolting. Pathetic, even! But it was true, and he ignored every telltale sign.

The silence had been broken. Like a gunshot through a window of glass, the shards had pricked him painfully as they fell about his feet. He had been so sure that Christine Daaé was the one who could keep his steel-framed glass barrier down. Instead, she had turned out to be like the rest; she put the shards back together after she had destroyed all the boundaries. Piece by piece, sealed by her rejection, it was an intricate puzzle he was sure no one else could ever hope to pull apart again. He had become accustomed to the pain, the anger, and the loneliness. It was a routine, a part of his life that he could not separate from any longer. Like music, it had become welded into his character. He had been so convinced of this that he was willing to die. Something had finally given way inside, permitting him to terminate the suffering once he knew he would never be able to escape.

He had never actually carried through with the plan, though he had truly meant to. If only that glass wall she had resurrected was still intact. Deep down, Erik had known from the moment he heard those innocent voices that his tunnels could not be permanently silenced just yet. No, for in the brief moments of unrestrained song, he felt the driving need for love and affection resurface from the depths he had buried them. Hell-bent on his path of self-destruction, he had not wanted to admit that something in the two orphaned children had struck a chord within him. Hadn't he been abandoned? Hadn't he felt battered by the abusive world around him? It was as though he was watching his life unfold before him, a miniaturized version. Two lost souls had met by chance, and this time, there was no third party to stand in their way. Even the names were perfect: Eric and Christine. And when they sang, the Angel of Music himself could not help but pause to listen.

Of course, these children did not know what a horror he was, although they had previously had a taste. The two had already ventured into his lair once, and despite his harsh welcoming, they returned when they were most vulnerable. Erik knew they had not come deliberately seeking his aid; it was when Eric accepted the offer that had touched him. The children had not been afraid to come before him, baring all their weaknesses. They had not shied away from him then, and he did not repulse them now. As long as they never discovered the secret that lay beneath his mask, he could foresee no trouble with them. All he wanted was to have a pupil again, someone who would revere his work and admire his talents. His only request was that he was allowed to watch them progress, watch them grow, and hope to absorb some of the beauty of his creation. It could never make up for the ugliness he embodied, but perhaps his beautiful creations would love him for the work he had devoted to them.

Erik stood again, his pacing now giving way to clarity and understanding. It was becoming as logical as his love for Christine Daaé had been; he now visualized the result he wished to accomplish at the end of his struggles. He felt comforted that he had found a niche in which he could place himself; he was sure it would fill the continuously gaping void of loneliness.

Just as he had been the Angel of Music, he planned to transform into another heavenly figure. Only this time, he would become a Guardian Angel and protect the two, while the rest of the world turned its back.

* * *

Eric burst into the room, breathless and excited. She cried out as soon as he entered.

"Did you get in? Did you make it?!"

"Yes! Yes, I made it! This has got to be the happiest day of my life!"

"Oh! How wonderful!" Her joy overwhelming her, Christine broke down into a fit of coughing. Eric quickly handed her the glass of water on her bedside table. She drank it eagerly, helping to control some of the spasms. He pulled a stool to her bedside, absent-mindedly holding her hand in his own. It was strange how the clothes he was wearing turned him into a completely different person. He was wearing formal clothes, something she had only seen through shop windows. His black coat was buttoned, his white shirt pressed to perfection. He even wore black shoes to match his ensemble, and his skin glowed with cleanliness. His fingernails were white; his hair combed and washed. It was only the sparkle in his eyes that carried the same vibrant spark it had before.

"Ah, Christine, I cannot begin to TELL you what it is like. You sing from your heart and the words just rise effortlessly to your lips. You can carry to each listener a different interpretation of what you are singing; they are in your control, they bend to your will! You can make the audience cry, laugh, or dance. There is nothing in the world that can compare, when you have the skill to make a person feel everything at once!"

"Oh, Eric, I'm so happy for you. I wish I could have been there!"

"It's alright, you will be able to see me when I have practiced enough to perform. Ah, it's too bad you are still sick, you should be in the Opera now too - I won't be able to visit you anymore."

"Why not?"

"Well… rehearsals run all day. By the time we are finished, it will be really late. The managers made special arrangements for me to have a room all to myself, so that I can sleep there. I'm not sure how, but they found out I came off the street, even when I auditioned dressed like this." His enthusiasm faltered, his expression slowly growing serious. "You'll need to hurry and get well. I'll miss having you around."

"Oh, don't worry!" Christine assured him. "I'll be back on my feet in no time!"

In less than two days, she fell sick again.