A/N: Lyrics for this chapter are from Nightwish's "Ever Dream" and "Ocean Soul," along with Cradle of Filth's "Dusk and Her Embrace." As always, thanks to my beta and friend, Erik.

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Out on the snowy sidewalk, Cheryl regarded Pietro with a critical eye. "Why did you allow that to happen while I was practicing? You know it is important for me to do the scales."

Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, Pietro sighed. "Signora, I had nothing to do with that renegade sandbag! Believe me, I would never allow anyone to hurt you intentionally!"

Her green eyes narrowed. "Ah ha! So if it were unintentional, you would allow it!" She jabbed a finger into his bony chest. "I should have known better than to hire you as my manager!"

He yelped in pain. "Ow! But signora, I never sa-"

"You have said enough!" With that, she flounced off to her car, parked at the curb. Fumbling with her keys, she made a valiant attempt to unlock the door but the keys simply would not cooperate with her efforts. As she continued to fight the keys, another car pulled up behind hers, the motor purring softly.

The driver's door opened to reveal a man of average height, with a head of sandy blonde hair that was fixed just so. Pocketing his keys into the pocket of his overcoat, he hurried over to Cheryl's side.

"Allow me, signora," he said, his enunciation betraying his high, and undoubtedly expensive, education. Gently taking the molded pieces of metal from her angry fingers, he quietly opened her door.

Cooing like a dove, Cheryl gave him a large smile and even batted her eyes a few times. "Ahhh...grazie, signor!" Curling her fingers around the extended keys and placing them in her Gucci bag, she turned her attention fully to the handsome stranger.

"...and what is signor's name, so that I might thank my savior justly?" She asked, the corners of her red lined mouth curling upward and extending a gloved hand in his general direction.

"My name, signora," he began, as he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to it, "is Raoul de Chetillion III."

Still standing on the snowy sidewalk, Pietro's eyes grew wide when he realized just who was kissing Cheryl's hand; he knew that an endorsement by this most influential person could, in fact, help sway the record label in her favor.

Sidling up to de Chetillion and pushing Cheryl out of the way, Pietro deftly pulled out a business card. "Monseeor de Chantilly...I think we have things to discuss."

"Please. Call me Raoul," he answered, taking Pietro's business card and studying it. "It's a family name, so I answer to that more than Monsieur de Chetillion."

Wrinkling his nose up in a smile, Pietro smiled. "Of course, Monseeor." Raoul tried not to cringe for a second time at the terrible mispronunciation, and listened as the man went on. "Whatever you'd like. It's my business to please." At that, Cheryl let out an audible snort and started mumbling something in Italian.

de Chetillion glanced over at Cheryl, then back to Pietro. "What's the matter with the signora?"

"Oh nothing...let's talk..." Pietro took the crook of his arm and led him inside the building. Glaring after the two, Cheryl stomped off behind them, muttering Italian curses the entire way.

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Come out, come out wherever you are...

As the haunting music played in the background, he considered his reflection in the shiny glass. Long, black hair framed his lean face; his dark eyes were outlined in matching black eyeliner. He supposed it was, more or less, a habit to make them seem whiter on stage, but he continued to do it even when not performing. If he could grow facial hair, it would be something akin to a goatee, or maybe not...he always wondered if women thought goatees to be sexy.

So lost in your sea...

He nimbly touched his chin with two fingers. Allowing his eyes to wander for a moment, he took in his entire reflection; for the first time in many years, he was looking at himself without the mask covering his deformity. Honestly, he could not remember the last time he actually had seen himself without it on...of course, that might have required having mirrors around his rooms, but he expressly forbade the presence of such things.

Give in, give in for my touch...

Lightly touching a fingertip to the mirror, he traced one of the many deep crevices that ran along his face; even though he had lived with it for all of his life, he still wondered what the ridges of flesh felt like. Sad to say, even he had a difficult time making contact with the ragged-looking plane, so he could imagine the horrors others had felt so many times before when seeing it for the first time.

For my taste for my lust...

Especially his mother. Aimeé.

He shuddered at the thought of her name...if every good little boy was supposed to love his mother, then he was anything but "decent."

No matter.

Even though that was years past, it still haunted him.

Bracing himself with both hands on the counter that stood below the mirror, he let his head hang down where his chin almost grazed his bare chest. He stood there for the longest while...he was shaken from his thoughts when something wet dropped lightly onto his hand. Opening his dark eyes to see what it was, another fell onto his other hand.

Looking up at his reflection in the mirror once more, he saw something wet streaking his thin cheeks...

He was crying.

Through his tears came a strangled whisper: "Through twilight, darkness and moonrise...my scarlet tears will run...as stolen blood and whispered love...of fantasies undone."

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An hour or so later, a soft knock came at his outer door. Blinking in rapid succession, Erik stood up from where he had been sleeping on the carpet; noticing the carpet markings on his chest and arms, he grabbed a black shirt off the nearest chair and quickly buttoned it, leaving part of it open. Looking around the room, he noticed how messy he'd become, but simply shrugged. Who would possibly care? It was not as if the person at the door was anyone he wanted to see in the first place.

Running a hand through his mussed hair, he walked past the mirror and saw he was sans mask. He began fumbling about the counter and found it half-buried; it was returned to his face with lightning speed.

Approaching the door, he noticed the knocking had subsided and almost decided to not open it; curiosity got the better of him, so he slowly twisted the knob.

Christine stood opposite him, her tiny hand raised to knock once more.

"Oh...Erik...I..." she stammered, having lost some of her nerve when he stood waiting.

Crying for me was never worth a tear...

He leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms against his chest. She lowered her eyes under his powerful gaze and saw the muscular frame slightly exposed. A slow blush crept up into her cheeks and she ducked her head down, trying to hide it. Chuckling, Erik reached out to her and raised her chin up with a finger.

"Now, now, Chris...ain't no reason for ya to be embarrassed and all. S'not like I'm anythin' to look at now, am I?" He just barely managed to keep the caustic bitterness out of his words.

Meeting his dark eyes with hers, she studied him closely...closer than she had ever been to him besides that time his hands were tight around her throat. Now the one that touched her was soft, almost tender. She was half convinced he could hear her pounding heart through her sweater and struggled to regain her composure.

My lonely soul is only filled with fear...

She straightened her sweater and walked past him into the room. Moving some of the clothes and papers on the floor aside with the tip of her boot, she turned and faced him. He'd come back into the room and had softly closed the door, only to meet her once again with those expectant eyes.

"Kindly don't be puttin' ya foot on me music, if'n ya don't mind," he said softly, almost a whisper.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Christine spoke. "Erik...about earlier...I didn't mean what I said about you. I just got caught up in the anger and all, lashing out at you when I should not have. I am so very, very sorry."

Erik was genuinely surprised at her words. He had not expected her to mention the incident again, let alone apologize for what she had said. Beneath the mask, he was sure his eyebrows, or whatever was there, were close to hitting his hairline. For once he did not know what to say...did not have an answer...was totally speechless. No one had ever apologized for calling him a freak before - he simply did not know what to make of it. Absently, he fingered the black bands that encircled his wrists.

I only wished to become something beautiful...

"I hope there's no hard feelings between us. I know how important this record deal is to all of the guys, especially you...since you write all of our songs," she said, staring down at the floor. "With the big show tonight, I just didn't want to leave things hanging, you know?"

"Yeah," he struggled to form the word.

Her sky blue eyes rose and caught his in a gaze that seemed to last forever. Neither moved or seemingly breathed until a knock interrupted the silence. Turning his head towards the door, Erik's eyes never left hers, even when he spoke.

"...whatcha want?" He managed to croak out.

The voice through the door was that of Nico, the drummer for the group. "Hey, Erik...are we still doing the run-through of the numbers?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well...uh, it's four-thirty. You called the rehearsal for four. Me and the guys were wondering if you and Chris were coming, that's all."

"Have the guys go through the riffs. I'll find Chris."

"Alrighty. You're the boss." Nico soon left, allowing the silence to encapsulate the two once more.

Blinking her large eyes, Christine darted to the door and quickly shut it behind her, closing off the connection that had been so open only moments before. Erik sighed, then gathered up a few pieces of music before heading out to the rehearsal.

Through my music, through my silent devotion...