I listened to Faust in French today, as it just happened to be on the radio. What a pretty Opera! Was rather inspiring as well, which is always nice for those of us who sometimes suffer writer's block. ;) I also purchased the POTO DVD and watched it…sigh!

"Je voudrais bien savoir
Quel était ce jeune homme,"

Silvia sang the words quietly so as not to disturb her neighbors. She had heeded the Phantom's demand that she not sing on the stage after rehearsals, although truthfully she had been only too happy to acede to the wish. M. Reyer had lengthened the practices daily, summoning them earlier and releasing them later as the date of the performance drew near.

However, today the Chanson du Roi de Thulé had given her trouble, and she was still practicing the verses in hopes of satisfying herself with her performance. The rooms on either side of hers were as yet unoccupied, and so she was relatively sure that her voice was not disturbing anyone. Her fellow choristers often only sought their beds after the clocks had struck the early morning hours.

A gaslight and a few deliberately-placed candles lit the otherwise dark room, illuminating the sheet of music she held for guidance. Scraps of night clung to the corners, refusing to be chased away by the candle-glare. Her bed was not yet turned down, its surface spread over with music.

"Si c'est un grand seigneur."

The words sounded hollow in the small room, her voice limited by the looming walls. It was an unsatisfatory location in which to rehearse, yet Silvia did not deem it wise to test the genuineness of the Opera Ghost's threats. Rumors told her enough of his temper, and she was certain he would carry out his promises with nary a regret.

Et comment il se nomme?"

"Did I not instruct you to leave off singing except during rehearsals?" He spoke, as before, from the shadows, although this time Silvia heard a tiny snick as some door or panel closed. Even as her heart hammered in startlement, she was relieved in some small way to know he could not actually walk through walls or materialize from the depths of darkness, as his name indicated.

"I wish you would not do that – would not come upon me unawares." She answered instead, her eyes catching his hard gaze as he emerged into the light. "You frighten me."

He paused, motionless for a long moment, his eyes reflecting some emotion Silvia could not identify. He looked almost as if he had been struck, and were he any other man she would have assumed he was reliving some deep past wound. But this man – he was so much icy hauteur and insurmountable arrogance, and he wore cruelty like a mantle.

"I have heard such words before, and from lips like yours," he finally murmured, his voice harsh.

Silvia did not reply – she had no words with which to answer. He confused her with his moods, even though arrogance and anger were perpetually evident.

She followed him with her eyes as he stalked to the lone chair in the room and lowered himself into it with the same grace with which he performed every move. He leaned back, his arms on the armrests, his slender fingers splayed on their velvet surfaces. Beneath the porcelain mask, his lips were bent in a frown.

It struck her suddenly how strange this was, to be entertaining a man who called himself the Opera Ghost in her small room. But her words of earlier had been true: he frightened her. Silvia knew only a small part of what had occurred in the months long past, and yet that was enough to impress upon her mind that he was someone whose authority was not to be challenged. The various reports had all attributed at least two murders to this man, as well as a kidnapping. Why he had not been hanged she could not comprehend, until she recalled his warnings. Was it that no one knew of his continued existence beneath the Opera, besides Madame Giry? And why had she not divulged the news?

And why was he sitting in her velvet chair, exuding a sorrow deeper than any she had experienced?

Her perplexedness leeched away most of her nervousness, and she went quietly to stand before him. "What troubles you, monsieur?"

The Phantom lifted his gaze to hers and in that moment she thought he would make her his confidante, share his turmoil. She wondered suddenly if she wanted such a thing.

But wonder she needn't have done, for when he caught sight of the music still caught in her pale hand his anger reasserted itself. With no warning, he tore the sheet from her fingers and shredded it with his own, seeming to enjoy it as the notes were ruthlessly dispatched and fluttered to the ground, music-less.

Silvia uttered a yelp of terror when he stood suddenly and closed his fingers on her wrist with crushing force. She took a step backwards to maintain her balance, for otherwise her nose was nearly brushing his chest.

"You trouble me, madame." He spit the words at her, fury behind them all. She winced as if they were blows. With a subtle gesture, he bent her arm so that she was forced to move closer to him or suffer a broken bone. Tears gathered in her eyes from the pain and the fear.

He grasped her chin with his free hand, tilting her head uncomfortably so that she was staring upwards at him. "You dredge up memories you have no right to touch, with your singing. You inhabit Christine's room and have taken her place as the opera's soprano. You are a demon sent to torment me, and I will not be tormented!"

His grip on her arm was bruising, and she cried out when he bent it further and forced her onto her tiptoes. Tears escaped from her eyes, skittering down her cheeks, glistening like diamonds on her skin. His burning eyes bore into hers although he did not see – or chose to ignore – the pleading there.

He has been recently wounded by a woman, and probably desires to wound a woman in return. Do not let him exact his revenge on Christine through you. Madame Giry's words danced suddenly into her tumultuous thoughts.

"I am not Christine," she whispered through her pain, praying he would hear her through his wrath. "I am not…! You are not hurting her, by hurting me!"

She let fall the lids of her eyes after she had spoken, for she could no longer bear the dark look in his eyes. With ragged breaths, she awaited the mercy of the Phantom of the Opera.