Hello again guys, back with more Erik, as always.

Malthen Tinu: Thanks, I try. : ))

Chantal:No more -que's, hopefully it's easier to read now.


Soundtrack to this chapter:

Beethoven: Adagio from Moonlight Sonata,

Apocalyptica: (These Finnish cellists are pure genius!) In Memoriam and Beyond Time.


"What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, 'This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!' Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, 'Never have I heard anything more divine'?"

-Friedrich Nietzsche

"Innocence is always unsuspicious." -Thomas C. Haliburton


In the small chapel of Opera Populaire, a lone child prayed, while a lone man stood vigil in the shadows.

A single candle was lit, illuminating the hallowed chamber softly.

Outside, only the gentle song of a drizzling rain beating against the roof could be heard.

"Papa…" Christine whispered with a ghostly timbre of loneliness, head bowed, prayer filled eyes of luminous topaz brown shimmered with silent tears, focused on the crucified saviour.

Small hand met a slightly faded, and rather worn picture of a father, much beloved and missed.

"Angel won't come, Papa."

Crystalline tears flowed down pallid cheeks, onto the pouted lips.

The Phantom, moved silently so as not to be heard, black cloak flaring behind him as he turned to observe the child, annoyed at his own nagging curiosity.

A single moment in time froze.

Eyes; the colour of Carpathian skies, fell upon little Christine.

Upon her tear-streaked delicate face framed with russet tinted auburn curls, large brown eyes, somewhat hallow, pleading a Suffering Christ.

Bitter black hatred died within, a cacophony of colours and blurred visions haunted a mind, its pain still afresh from the revelations of a most disturbing nature.

A warped soul searching desperately for a place to fit in…yearning acceptance… longing for a hand to walk with…

While others utterly stopped caring and were only empty shells going through the motions.

Outside, the rain had turned into a steady downpour, lightning flickered every few seconds.

Christine gasped in fear at the thunder's sudden and unexpected violent echo, and clasped her fingers around the small wooden crucifix she wore. She wanted to run from this eerie chapel, back up to the dormitories, and slip under her warm blankets. Instead, she stood her ground, awaiting.

Why do you turn to Him, child…Where is He now, but sainted and chained in a Fool's false paradise, while it is I, the condemned and persecuted gargoyle who hears your plea.

Erik mused, wondering just what kind of hold this little creature had on him already. It disturbed him even as it enthralled him, drawing him from the cloak of darkness slowly near to bask in her very presence.

Christine.

So vulnerable and fragile…her childish innocence that of a lily white, expectant and demanding.

"Christine…"

Quietly he murmured, her name escaped his lips in a slow breath, resonant with an unearthly tenderness.

"Angel?" Her voice…A hymn to beauty, the virtue's song.

Her hopeful smile was a brilliant, silver moonbeam piercing the nightshades…

His call was the benevolent and warm miracle of darkness, enshrouded with gentle promise of heaven's sacred light, luring her forward…

Transfixed, garnet eyes specked with amber glanced around in search of her Angel.

The tiny chapel lit for a second by the crackling blue strike of lightning.

Earth brown and honey-gold eyes entwined with storm grey and cobalt blue gaze.

Her Angel of Music.

No feather soft alabaster wings spread in heavenly glory, not a seraphic ivory smile.

But a mask, devoid of all colours.

A masked visage of pure white to her senses.

Christine smiled brightly, face turned heavenward in boundless gratitude.

"Thank you, Papa… thank you."

"Christine, are you down there still?"

A soft glimmer of a lantern light falling across the stairway.

Meg, whispering in a conspiratorial , and rather urgent tone from the top of the stairs.

Christine gasped softly, Mme. Giry would be incensed if she ever learned of her nightly visitations to the chapel.

In the day, the Opera House was alive with a myriad of sounds, dispelling the tranquil of the chapel, so Christine had tiptoed her way down and lit a candle for her father after nightfall, when there was the least chance of being disturbed. She had forgotten how late it was, but time had lost its sense and meaning in that one miraculous moment she heard the Angel call her name.

"Coming, Meg!" she whispered, her heart seized with happiness, and turned to grab her father's picture.

She stared, unable to move, unable to think. Unable to breathe.

Beside the picture, was a flower.

A single rose the colour of a freshly fallen snow, pure, unblemished white, its green stem tied with a simpleblack silk ribbon.


I know this chapter has been short, but I'm working on the next one already, needless to say will be a long chapter, and shall possibly be posting it sometime soonish.

Reviews? Yes please!