I woke to silence. The complete, utter quiet frightened me for a moment; as long as I could recall, there had always been some sound in the labyrinths where I lived. The far-off squeal of a rat, or the maddening but steady drip of water along the old sewage pipes, something!

Drawing in a soft, steadying breath, I strained to catch some familiar sound to ease the silence, listening hard enough so that when the throbbing power of Father's organ music tore through the stillness, it frightened me far more than the lack of noise had. I jerked hard enough to lift my entire upper body off the bed and the kitten, who had been peacefully sleeping by my head, yowled and took off to his refuge beneath the bed. As he left, his back feet, which had lain closest to my head, flipped out and buried their claws deep within my scalp. I gave a hoarse yell and lunged for the filthy little beast, but he had the double advantage of not being entangled either by blankets or by the last dregs of a fairly powerful sleeping draught.

Snarling wordless curses, I curled quickly into the blankets again, shuddering as cold air hit my taut, aching skin. To calm myself, I listened to the dark strains of Father's music, not realizing in my sudden lethargy that what he played was the funeral aire of his most famous but unfinished works – Don Juan Triumphant. Had I but possessed half an alert ear, I would have recognized the playing as a warning. Father always played this piece when he was feeling lonely or upset.

But the meaning behind the music eluded me for the moment, and I felt a curious, wrenching loss when I realized that the music had stopped. I closed my tired eyes, letting my body drift into a half-doze, which I was abruptly startled out of when I heard my father curse softly. Surprised, I opened my eyes to see him turning back towards the door. By the heavy set of his powerful shoulders, I knew he was upset about something and didn't dare to speak, instead shifting position and rustling the covers loudly enough to gain his attention.

He turned back immediately and I winced inwardly at the deep pain etching his maskless, ruined features. He had been thinking of her again! Oh, how I hated Christine Daae!

"You are awake." He came instantly to my side.

I nodded, then reached up and pushed his heavy silver forelock back from it's place over his masked brow, appalled at how my fingers shook as I did so.

"How are you feeling? Any better?" He closed his hands over mind, quelling at least the sight of the shaking. I watched him for several moments, gauging his mood, then closed my eyes and 'thought' my answer at him. Not a good explanation, perhaps, but it is the best I can give.

"I've certainly felt better…" The voice that was my own thoughts echoed inside my head for a moment, then vanished, and I knew Father could hear it. He kept his composure admirably, but I had known him long enough to be aware that I had at last managed to startle him. "It hurts to breathe," I added as an afterthought, wondering if it would work again. It apparently did, for he for knelt down beside me and gently ran his hands along my ribs, tickling a coughing spasm out of me that left me breathless and weak. It was only when I realized that I could feel my father's fear and concern tightening in my own chest that I was able to open my eyes again and shut the link I had formed between us. Some of the painful pressure eased and I drew a careful breath.

"Does it hurt only after you cough?" he asked finally, stroking my hair back.

I thought about it, then shook my head carefully, watching a grim expression settle cheerlessly over his darkened eyes. His lips moved in a silent curse and he sighed. "The damp has infected your lungs. I thought so, when I heard you breathing last night. Dammit!" He passed a weary hand over his brow, then hastened to reassure me. "No, no, it isn't your fault, my son… Not yours at all. It's the damnable damp down here, and the conditions under which I make you live…"

My eyes flared and I broke his rule of silence to snap at him. "It isn't your fault either, it was and is hers!" My strained voice cracked and broke as it had years ago when I had been a boy changing to a man. My throat closed over in panic as Maurissa's hateful face, sneering with delight, broke into my mind. Father, about to berate m for speaking, suddenly pulled me close against his chest instead. "Hush, hush, it's all right. You're safe, Erik, it's over. She's gone now. Come, stop shaking, you know that." He held me, trying to soothe me in a way he had done countless times in the past.

But I couldn't seem to quell my shaking. In unusually vivid flashes, the memories slowly wound their macabre procession around my brain; the tiny acid bottle glinting in the faint light; the inquisitive glances and grasps I had extended towards it as I lay on my back in the heavy wooden cradle my father had crafted for me; my mother's insane laughter, softly chilling as she brought the bottle close, tipping its contents down my cheek, spreading it across my brow.

Father was pinning my arms to my sides, I dimly felt, as I clawed desperately at my unmasked features, trying desperately to scrape away the memories of an agony so real then that it was still haunting me now.

"Erik, calm down!" Father snapped, slapping me sharply. I froze instantly; he had never, never hit me. Not once in my lifetime had he ever raised a hand to me. Normally, during fits like these – I edged away from the word 'hysterics' – they only lasted a few minutes and holding me would usually cure them. But this, this was like the nightmares I hadn't had since boyhood. Almost every night I'd awaken screaming, loud enough, M'sieu André used to tell Father, that those outside the Populaire could hear me. Those had lasted not minutes, but hours, and nothing would calm me save Father singing softly to me as he rocked me close, which he began to do now, his lips brushing the soft skin of one earlobe.

His voice, still hauntingly melodic, the hypnotizing voice of a young, dark god, began to soothe me almost immediately. My shivers subsides gradually, but my eyes still remained on his face, shocked still that he had at first used force to try and quell my fit. The song, unintelligibly worded, ended on a sweetly poignant, dark note, but it did not wipe away my surprise. I knew then how worried Father was, that he would broach his pact of self- control so completely as to strike me.

"Erik, Erik, forgive me…" he murmured softly, his eyes urgently seeking mine. "Please… I didn't mean to hit you, no, I would never hurt you, oh, Erik, I am frightened, frightened for you, forgive me, please…"

My breathing, hampered by the brush with a violent attack of panic and by the heavy, leaden liquid in my lungs, was nevertheless slowing to normal rhythm by the time I found the strength to press my quivering hands against Father's lips. My pale green eyes reflecting nothing more than weary illness, I met his gaze unflinchingly. A single, powerful thought thundered in brief majesty in my mind's silence before I allowed Father to hear it.

"I love you." My lips, white and trembling with sick weariness, nevertheless formed each word without breath to mime them, not daring even now to countermand my father's orders and incite his wrath. I closed my eyes as he drew me close against him and, feeling like some trembling, starving lover at last reunited with the object of his affections, I clung to Father's strength and drifted off to sleep in his arms.