A/N: Well, I managed a bit of fluff and lots of angst for this particular chapter. I am also planning on exploring Erik's past, why he is where is he, eventually. One note though. . .a minor change that I'm making in the story. Instead of having an organ in the music room, I've had the moving guys swing by, pick it up, and replace it with a piano. I just felt that an organ was a little out of place in this context. I also feel that a piano is a little more seductive and enthralling.

Chapter 11

"Beautiful Disaster"


He drowns in his dreams
An exquisite extreme I know
He's as damned as he seems
And more heaven than a heart could hold
And if I try to save him
My whole world would cave in
It just ain't right
It just ain't right


He's magic and myth
As strong as what I believe
A tragedy with
More damage than a soul should see
And do I try to change him
So hard not to blame him
Hold me tight
Hold me tight


I'm longing for love and the logical
But he's only happy hysterical
I'm searching for some kind of miracle
Waited so long
So long


He's soft to the touch
But frayed at the end he breaks
He's never enough
And still he's more than I can take
Oh and I don't know
I don't know what he's after
But he's so beautiful
He's such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster

He's beautiful
Lord he's beautiful
He's beautiful

Kelly Clarkson

She awoke later, stirring lazily in the large bed, and glanced towards the windows. The light of a waning afternoon still shone through the tall windows. She felt the last traces of a dreamless sleep slip away from her. What time is it? How long have I been asleep?

Her hand drifted up to her brow and she found it strangely barren of his touch. A shiver ran through her body. Why does he frighten me so? The feeling of his leather gloved hand upon her skin was vivid in her mind. It had been cold, just as he was. Just as he always was except for the rarest exceptions. And when he had cradled her in his arms, her body feeling suddenly so small and vulnerable, she felt the power coursing through his tall frame. He is no angel. But what is he?

Then she heard it. The faint sound of a piano down the hall. The notes were quiet at first, but gradually grew louder and more passionate. Christine drew herself out of bed and found her robe, tying it about her waist with fumbling fingers. She moved towards the door and hesitated as her hand wavered over the doorknob. Why do I fear what is beyond this door?

She moved slowly across the hall, following the notes that seemed to lure her in the direction of the music room. She pressed her body against the wall nearest the open doorway to the room and listened to the song. The melody was impossibly beautiful. It soared at times to such heights that the angels, the real angels, must have looked down in longing. For what mere mortal could grace the keys of the instrument in such a way as to weave a thing of splendid beauty, like a wall of heaven had crumbled and revealed the glory beyond to the listener?

Angel? Friend? Phantom? Christine could take it no longer. He had hidden himself away so cleverly, never revealing who he really was or what his intentions were. And she had blindly trusted him. She had chosen to leave a place of peace and tranquility to return to this ruin of loneliness and despair. I have given up whatever existence I might have had to return here.

The music began to quiet to a soft melody. She began to hesitate. Dare I enter and attempt what I'm about to do? But her curiosity, no, her will, chose to do the unthinkable. Christine entered the music room softly, her bare feet soundlessly moving upon the carpeted floor. He was seated at the piano opposite to her, his back facing her, mocking her to do what she sought out to do. There was such tension in his back. He had removed his suit jacket, casting it carelessly over a piece of furniture. Through the white shirt that now hung loosely upon his solid frame, she could see every muscle poised.

She hesitated again. What shall come of this? What will he do? She could take it no longer. He had always had the advantage. He had forced her to live this miserable existence. Granted, he had improved within the last couple of weeks, making his mortal presence known to her on infrequent occasions. But this was not the life she could live. This was not the life her father would have wanted her to live. She craved human attention that was still kept far from her pleading eyes. He denied her that even now. There had been no true conversation between them. Only the lessons. If one dared to call the music they had created a conversation, he or she saw far beyond the surface and had an intimate knowledge that many others would not have had.

This angel of mercy has abandoned me. He has built up my solitude. When he was finished, he retreated back to where I could not see him. She felt the frustration spread out to her fingertips. As she slowly approached him, she felt her hands drift out, tingling with anticipation. He continued to play, his body almost swaying into the frenzied notes that had suddenly stirred up from the quiet lullaby. Her slender hands rose over his back and drifted closer to the barrier that had hidden him away from her for so long. She watched with fearful eyes as his muscles tensed.

Slender fingers found the edge of the mask, tracing the thin porcelain with determined strokes. But suddenly, as her fingers nearly slipped beneath the edge, his hand shot up and clutched at her wrist painfully. He swung around in his seat, twisting her wrist in a way that made her fall to the floor before him like a penitent child. She watched in horror as his slender, masculine hand tightened its grip on her wrist and she yelped in pain.

"Foolish, child!" he roared. "Prying Pandora!"

She quaked in fear at his unstable grip and found her chin forced up by the commanding grip of his other hand. But above his powerful hold on her wrist, his voice was what frightened her most of all. Her large, fearful eyes locked onto his. For a moment, she found herself in the depths of hell. A hell she had never encountered before, but one which burned darkly in his eyes.

"Do you not understand? You can never be free if you dare look upon my face!" His voice never lost its power. It rose like that of an avenging angel, uttering a curse upon her very soul.

He watched as she lay trembling upon the floor before him, her nightgown and robe scattered about her legs. The girl's long hair fell before her as she bowed her head, nearly hiding her face from his. He reached out to move it aside with his hand, but she pulled away sharply, fearing his wrath as though his hand would inflict a horrible punishment upon her. Christine slid back along the floor when his grip suddenly loosened. She lay trembling beside a couch like a frightened animal, her head buried in the sleeves of her robe.

I need to leave. I need to get out of here. What was I thinking in staying? If only I could leave this place. But I can't. He would find me. Oh, father, what should I do?

He watched as she shook with emotion. Her fear of him had never been more pronounced. I have ruined everything, he suddenly thought sadly. She lingered there on the floor as though waiting for his verdict.

"Christine," she heard him say, the anger in his voice had disappeared just as quickly as it had surfaced.

She heard him move towards her. That was when she could take it no longer. She felt him approach, waiting like a wounded animal as she cradled her injured wrist, and her legs moved beneath her and lifted her body up. Christine bolted from the room, nearly slipping as her feet sought purchase on the smooth floor beyond the doorway.

He heard her run down the hall. Heard the slam of her door. And then the house was abnormally quiet.

An entire day had passed before she dared leave the safe recesses of her room. In the course of it, she had attempted an uneasy sleep, drifting in and out of nightmares before she arose and paced about frantically. She sat for the entire morning and afternoon of the following day in front of her windows. Her heavy gaze was often carried upward and she dreamed of a place where she could feel her father's gentle embrace. Too exhausted to cry, she remained there with a dry, stoic face.

Finally, out of sheer hunger, she gathered the courage to leave her chambers and venture down the hall towards the kitchen. The house seemed strangely silent. She should have expected it. She trod down the hall, wearing a fresh nightgown and loosely belted robe until she found the darkened kitchen on her right. Peering inside, she saw and heard no one, and slowly inched her way inside. She looked over and saw a small plate of food lying on the counter. Her brow furrowed in confusion for a moment. She raised her uninjured hand and lifted a piece of cheese from the plate.

Christine ate in silence for a few moments. She was unaware of the presence behind her until it was too late.

"I see you have finally left your room," she heard his voice behind her.

She spun around, the plate nearly clattering on the countertop as she removed her hand from it. She faced him with wild eyes, pressing her back against the counter as she noticed how closely he stood before her. In the dim light, he stood like a towering shadow with only the faint gleam of his eyes shining in the failing light. It was difficult to not be afraid of such a menacing presence. She felt herself begin to tremble again and suddenly wished that Madame Giry were here.

But she was alone.

"You will not speak to me?" he asked, his angelic voice plaguing her.

"Just. . .g-go. . .a-away," she stuttered, dropping her gaze to avoid his.

"I will not," he said, stepping closer.

She raised her hands in a foolish attempt to block herself from him. But as she did so, she felt his fingers upon her wrist. Her eyes shot open and she noticed that he did not wear any gloves. His long, slender fingers were tracing the bruises upon her injured wrist. She whimpered softly as they carefully closed around her hand and drew her limb closer to him. Her strange tutor stood unmoving, examining the bruises that he himself had inflicted upon her. Long fingers resumed their gentle probe, tracing around the circle of bruises, as his other hand cradled her wrist with such gentleness. He looked up at her for a moment and she noticed for a split second the compassion in his fiery eyes. The regret.

"It hurts," she whimpered again, her voice sounding so small.

His attention remained fixed upon the injury as he gently stroked it. She had wondered what his hands looked like beneath the gloves he wore nearly all the time. She wondered why he wore them so often. For as she watched them, she noted how peculiarly long and slender they were then any other man's she had seen. She remembered her father's hands. They had been similar in shape – long, graceful fingers that had worked the violin so effectively. But his hands were even more crafted for music. They had such breathtaking grace and fluidity in their movements that one could not help but stare in awe as they worked. As much as they were long and slender, there was a definite masculinity to them. These were not the hands of a mild man, born into a life of luxury and ease. They bore the strength and skill of someone who had lived a harder life. They looked beautiful to the casual observer, but undoubtedly such hands held a terrible power.

The chill of his fingers began seeped into her skin and drew a shudder along her spine. He must have felt it, for he lifted his eyes to her again

"Come," he ordered her gently.

She stood there like a frightened child. Her other arm hung loosely at her side. Those large, brown eyes capable of so much emotion now shone with fear and pain. She seemed to shake like a lamb before the slaughter. She has every right to fear me, he thought bitterly, I have taken many lives.

Drawing her to his side, he led her from the kitchen and down the hall. Ever watchful, he frequently glanced down on her. Her eyes were fixed gravely ahead as though some terrible dark fate awaited her at their destination. Her skin was pale in the last remnants of light. The light shone around her, as he had come to notice, in such a way as to perpetuate the fantasy that here walked an angel of God. She radiated such innocence and uncorrupted beauty that he feared to spoil her with his very presence. I am but a vile creature. He continued to lead her down the hall, past her own room and up a flight of stairs that lay at the end. They twisted upwards and led into another a hallway on the second floor.

At last, he stopped at his own doorway and opened it slowly, before carefully leading the trembling girl inside. A small anteroom lay before his suite. There lay a couch before a large fireplace and many antiques scattered about the richly decorated room. Erik led her towards the small couch and indicated for her to sit with a sweep of his elegant hand.

Erik left her for a moment as she waited for whatever fate would grant her. She shivered at the chill in the air. The room felt considerably colder then any other part of the house she had been in before. Her eyes fell upon the walls and she scanned the paintings that hung there. Much like the drawing room downstairs, the small room held numerous paintings of architecture and foreign landscapes. Her eyes fixed briefly on a traveling caravan making its way across a vast desert.

A soft shuffle announced his return. He came into the room and approached her slowly with a small bottle in one hand and a bandage in the other. Her dark maestro seat himself beside her and she drew away from him instinctively. A frown seemed to cross the visible part of his face for a moment. He reached for her hand again and Christine reluctantly surrendered it. His fingers closed around her hand, holding it firmly as he dabbed a light cream upon her bruised flesh. She winced slightly at the pressure.

"What is it?" she asked softly, the fear still lingering in her voice.

He glanced up at her, the white mask gleaming in the candlelight, and his expression seemed to soften. "It will soothe the pain and hasten the healing process," he explained.

She watched him as he attended to her wrist, his head bent in deep thought. There had not been many times when she had had the chance to study him. Most often, it had been the reverse. But as he was busy in his task, she watched him with a restrained interest. His dark, nearly ebony hair gleamed in the dim light. She watched the flicker of his eyes and noted the furrow of his noble brow, from what lay unhidden by the white mask. Fine lines etched handsomely at his eyes were one of the few betrayals of his age. She was but a child, he a man.

He wore his suit jacket even now, but she remembered the thick muscles of his back and the way they moved as he played the piano. In her mind, she could see the movement of his long, slender fingers upon the keyboard as they created a song so darkly passionate that it frightened her to recall its alluring melody.

His lips were firm in his concentration. She felt herself having difficultly drawing her gaze from them. As his head rose, having finished with his ministrations, a subtle blush filled her pale face. His dark green eyes locked onto hers. Why do I feel so frightened every time he looks at me? She drew her hand away quickly, focusing her attention on his handiwork. The wrist was beginning to numb, and he had wrapped a bandage around it carefully. Her fingers drifted across the bandage with purpose, but her mind was far away in thought. I can still feel his touch.

Her hand drifted up to her mouth as a yawn finally broke through.

"Why did you do it?" he suddenly asked her, his eyes growing gravely serious.

She looked at him and immediately knew what he was referring to. "I don't know. I needed to know. . ."

"Is it not enough that I am here? You cried out for someone real. Am I not flesh and blood?"

She lowered her head in thought. She suddenly wished that Sister Catherine were here to advise her. She always knew the right thing to say.

"Yes," her voice trailed off. "But for all that I know you could be a figment of my imagination. As cold and lifeless as someone created in my mind. You hide from me and refuse me even the simplest of human contact."

She does not know what she silently asks for. She has not seen this face.

He sighed heavily, lifting his hands to the mask that he had worn methodically for so many years, and was prepared to pry it off. To make her see what she was asking for. But he suddenly felt her small hands on his. He looked into her wavering eyes.

"No," she cried out.

"You want to know that I am no mere figment of your imagination. Let me show you the face that you could not imagine in your dreams," he said with a saddened resignation.

"I do not want to now," she breathed, bringing her uninjured hand to her face, and burying her mouth in the sleeve.

She felt a strange satisfaction from his action. For once, his resolve seemed to have crumbled and exposed a strangely human interior. Christine could see now that he did not hide from her to fool her. There was a bitter past behind his actions. A past that he was not willing to let go of. She suddenly wondered how she could have been so selfish. But a question that had never been answered suddenly forced itself from her lips.

"Why did you lie to me?" she asked. "Why did you pretend to be my angel of music?"

"You wanted an angel," he said, his voice growing deeper, "and I accommodated that wish."

"But I thought it was real. I thought the promise my father had made was true. That I would never be alone again. But everything I believed in was a lie. I am more an orphan then I have ever been before. There is. . .n-nothing in this world for me," she cried, her lip trembling.

"You wanted a guardian. A teacher. I can watch over you just as your father did," he said. She watched as his hands seemed to tremble at his sides.

"I wish he were here right now," she replied quietly. "There was so much love in his eyes. Now, I feel as though a part of me is dying."

An unbearable silence seemed to spread throughout the room. If she only knew. I could not bear it if she left my side. I would kill to keep her here.

She felt as though she were dying from sheer loneliness. That every moment spent in silence was bringing her closer. And yet, another part ached for the voice. His voice. That part of her surged with life whenever his voice sounded. So much so, that she was like a delicate rose, whose bloom sought out the sunlight of his voice and dared to open its petals to the song. That part of her filled her with fear. She was afraid of losing herself in his song. So many times, she felt she had strayed too close to the edge when he sang to her. A terrible ache or longing had filled her soul and there seemed no way to quench it.

She felt something warm on her shoulders and shook herself from her silent reverie to watch as he wrapped a blanket about her shoulders. He walked to the fireplace and quietly made a fire. When he finally lifted himself up from his task and turned, he found she had already fallen asleep on the small couch.

Marie Phantom - I hope the EC goodness was OK. I know it could be better, and it will be eventually, but I just want to slowly build it up. I likes the angst! He he.

vivian49 - yes, following your suggestion, I will explore Erik's past in greater detail. Thanks!