Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

Disclaimer: Same as before applies…

A/N: Poem in this section was written by me, and as far as I know there isn't a poem with these words out there… so if there is, I didn't mean to steal!

Chapter 8: Virtue of Patience

She must have screamed. She didn't remember doing it, but she must have. Her heart was beating furiously in her chest, and she was shivering. Whether it was from fear or from the coldness of her sweat she couldn't tell. There was only a faint light from the embers glowing orange in the fireplace. She pulled the comforter around her, feeling the darkness closing in rapidly. The fear, the urgency - it did not depart as quickly as her dream had, and the darkness did nothing to soothe her. In fact, it merely reminded her of the black hole she had been falling in after the hideous crack. Her hands involuntarily wiped her eyes, her mind registering the fact that she had been crying in her sleep. Hesitantly, she lay back down - telling herself it was just a dream. Even so, she felt as though whatever she had been running from was there, still chasing after her, hunting her through the darkness. Beady… beady black eyes staring at her in this room, waiting to reach out and strike once she drifted off to sleep…

She bolted upright, her eyes straining to penetrate the darkness. She slid off the bed silently, pattering towards the invisible door. With minimal effort she managed to trigger it open.

* * *

Erik awoke, his blood run cold. Instinctively, his hands groped for his mask as he sat up. The echo of the shrill cry echoed in his ears, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. In the silence that ensued, he became calmer - convincing himself everything was alright. Children were difficult; he couldn't remember being like that. It was a strange feeling, to worry about another person. To care for them, feed them, and to be constantly vigilant, in case something was needed. Between looking out for Eric's interests in the Opera, his own, and Christine, he realized he had less and less time to spend with his reworking of Don Juan Triumphant. His masterpiece, his art, his very life. Blinked away by some helpless children. He felt compelled to work on it, a strange addiction to the work, as though he was a slave to its production instead of the creator. He no longer wanted to work on it, but he was restless if he was not. He turned over, away from the sheet music on his organ, away from the blood red notes he could see and hear even in his sleep.

There was a timid knock on the door. He froze, his heart pounding wildly. Why? Why was he frightened out of his wits by a knock on the door, why was he so intimidated? He knew he should get up, open the door. But he remained still, laying on his side, his back pushed against his coffin of a bed.

The door opened slowly, a tiny head peeking in. He cursed himself, remembering the door was not invisible from the outside. He should have fixed that, a long, long time ago. He cringed as the girl stepped into his tormented sanctuary, her comforter dragging along the floor, the tiny candle in her hand illuminating her face. As she crept closer, he could hear her quiet sniffles, and he could see streaks on her cheeks through the eyes of his mask. Her face was that of pure fear, something he was all too familiar with, arousing a boiling hatred in Erik's heart. Was she going to remove his mask? Did she want to be haunted more than she apparently was? His fear of being discovered clenched his face. He wasn't sure what he would do if she touched his face. Her body was so tiny… if he wanted he could snap her neck in two… Mentally, he gave himself a shake. He wasn't sure what he would do to this girl. It wasn't really important anyway. If she was going to repay his kindness by doing the one thing he instructed her not to, she would pay. He had no tolerance for those who would not respect his wishes.

He watched detached as she stood looking down at him. She continued to sniffle and wiped her eyes occasionally. Her eyes drifted about the room occasionally, taking in everything - the music scattered on the floor and about the organ, the blood red notes, the coffin… Then her eyes shot to the door, as if she expected something to come through after her. She blew out the candle and stood still in the silence, waiting. He heard the clink as it was placed on the ground, and then he felt the comforter brush against his hand. She carefully climbed into the coffin, still sniffling. She curled up in the far corner, trying not to disturb him he supposed. She continued to cry, a muffled sob escaping the layers she had wrapped herself in. His anger had disappeared, unnerved by her curious behavior and her tears. He wasn't sure why she had come here. What did she expect from him? He relaxed from his rigid attempt to remain still. Apparently she had no intentions of disturbing him. He was tempted to tell her to get out, but he was sure she was convinced he was asleep. The mask did not allow her to see his two different eyes, and so she probably assumed he hadn't woken.

Erik listened to her crying herself softly to sleep. The sobs ebbed, until her breathing had slowed rhythmically. He carefully sat up and turned his back to her, feeling a faint trace of warmth radiating from her. She was such an odd child…

* * *

Erik looked at her from behind the organ.

"Sharp. Do it again." Christine's face crumbled.

"Again?"

"You will do it until you get it right." He tried to keep his voice from being demanding, but it was difficult. Patience was something difficult to acquire and harder to retain.

She sighed and began the scale again. It had been four days since he had begun teaching her. He had only succeeded in teaching her the basic concepts of the staff and notes.

"That's much better." He said as she finished the last note. "Now, I think you are ready to proceed. You will sing this." He handed her a single sheet of music. "I will play it for you first, and I just want you to follow along." His fingers danced along the organ, tapping each and every note to create a stream of song. When he finished the first section he looked up at her to see her staring at him blankly. He frowned.

"What is it." It was not a question; it was a demand. She blushed faintly, looking embarrassed but attempting to maintain her dignity.

"What does it say?" She held the paper back out to him, waiting for him to take it. But he didn't.

"What do you mean, 'what does it say'?" He demanded. "Can't you read?"

"No." Her voice quivered, feeling his anger and frustration break through his usual calm exterior.

"NO?!" His voice had risen, and she cowered before him. A stab in the heart could not have hurt him more. He looked away quickly, feeling a strange regret for his harshness. He slowly rose and turned back to her, his voice hiding his thoughts.

"You cannot sing unless you learn to read first. It never occurred to me that you might not have this basic knowledge. Very well. We'll start with something simple. Come with me." He turned, starting towards the library. She trailed behind him, the pink not yet faded from her cheeks.

He stood in the middle of the doorway, thinking for a moment, before he dug into one of the drawers in a desk sitting on the left side of the room. He flipped through several piles of papers before settling with five he had pulled out.

"This will do for now." He turned and handed them to her. "You will learn to read while you learn music. They walk hand in hand down the path of life - you cannot articulate expression without either portion. Music is the foundation of the song, and the lyrical content is the walls to the building that houses human thoughts, feelings…" They had come back to the practice room, and he flipped out his coattails as he sat down.

"Now, we shall start with this." He picked the first one off the five he had chosen. "'A Picked Violet', that is what we shall begin with. Come here." He motioned to a spot next to his bench. "You will read the words in your head as I tell them to you. You will repeat after me. Then, I will play it - you will sing it. I will not repeat words - you will listen and you will learn." His stern voice left her no choice but to nod her consent. He leaned forward a little bit, examining the words and the notes that accompanied them.

"There's a hidden patch of violets if you care to look for them. They're hiding from those who walk the trampled path. They may not last long enough for you to see, but they will come back another spring." He stopped, and turned to her. "Read it."

"There's a hidden path of violets if you can look… uhm… for… them?" Her eyebrows were peaked together, her uncertainty written across her face. He sighed.

"Patch of violets, it's patch. And that's care, not can. Do it again."

"There's a hidden patch of violets if you care to look for them." She repeated. He nodded.

"Continue. There's more." She looked at him dubiously and glanced at the paper again.

"Uhm… It's… walked…" She stopped, looking ashamed. "I don't remember it."

"They're hiding from those who walk the trampled path."

"They're hiding from those who walk the trampled path." He nodded, accepting her success.

"Both now."

"There's a hidden patch of violets if you care to look for them. They're hiding from those who walk the trampled path."

"Good!" Her face visibly brightened with the praise. "Now, listen." He played the notes that accompanied it at an easy, slowed pace. "Sing it."

"There's a hidden path of violets

If you care to look for them.

They're hiding from those who

Walk the trampled path."

"You're off on the high note. You're sharp on the B and you aren't convincing me you know where an A is. Do it again." She nodded imperceptibly, accepting the criticism and starting again. This time he nodded.

"Better. Look over those words. Learn them. You're going to copy them down until your hands either fall off or you learn to write." He stood up, grabbing a stack of blank papers and a dulled pencil. "Let me know when you've finished. Until you grasp basic concepts of these words, and how to write them on your own, we shall not continue. I will not have an illiterate child join my Opera." With that said, he turned and left the room.

* * *

Eric collapsed on his bed. He was so tired. Rehearsal had been relentless; even as a mere choral member he was forced to redo his section over and over again. He decided he would perhaps sleep, and then eat. He had no energy left to even get up to get his food. Just as he was drifting off, he heard a harsh voice.

"What are you doing?!"