Erik

Just a few moments.

My feet take me down the dank, unlit passage with resonating footfalls. I scarcely hear them. In the possessive clutch of my gloved hand is the violin. Its strain is different than that of any other violin I've ever played, or even heard. No doubt Daae was a master, and his talent for personalising his own instrument is something I grudgingly accept that I can never replicate. Needless to say, Christine will recognise its unique and familiar sound, and that will play into my charade perfectly.

Just a few moments before my soul will diverge once again, and manifest itself in yet another unlikely supernatural identity.

"Damn you, Erik," I intone gutturally, forcing any rebellious thoughts that are about to happen into silent submission. I want to be entirely at ease with myself over what I am about to do, if I want to do it correctly. Naturally, I am not. The Fates never make anything easy for me; they leave me only to decide which disposition of my essence to trust, and to put my trust in said disposition entirely.

Just a few moments and I will embody not only a man and a phantom, a mortal and a ghost, but an Angel.

A smirk comes across my lips. I wear black. A dark Angel.

"That is who you are," I whisper. "A fallen Angel…a celestial governor foisted into an earthly semblance doomed to Hell." That will do. That will have to do; I don't know who, or what, I am, and my newest façade suddenly fits, making more sense than anything I've ever thought to be before. Devil's Child is at once more acceptable, if I am also an Angel to compensate.

A sudden image of Madeleine tears through my thoughts, how beautiful she looked in her anger and incredulity, and an all-too-familiar sensation stirs within me, pulling me back into reality. Merde; I am still a man after all.

A few more steps, and the deep pinks and golds of the dressing room come into visibility by the light of my torch. I do not need it to light my way, of course, but flame has a nymph-like peculiarity of ushering me into the perfect ambience while I play. The thought of the golden firelight dancing off of the red wood of the violin, as it weeps tears of incomparable music, nearly steals my breath.

My footfalls become lighter and less swift as I draw closer to the mirror. Stopping just inches from it, I lower the torch into an empty sconce in the stone wall and cradle the violin into my cloak. It is just past seven-thirty; Christine will be present any moment, trusting that M Lefevre received my note well.

I wonder, at times, how long the man will last. The two dual managers before him put up with me for only six months; the manager before them I could only tolerate for two before disposing of his career. Before that, there was LaBrant, that agreeable and bloody wealthy old gentleman who enjoyed the intrigue and infamy I brought to his beloved Opera Populaire and gladly paid me for my services. I'd let him entertain the thought that he shared custody of the Opera—he amused me. He'd been the manager when I first came, and I was grateful to have him until his curiosity consumed him and he met an unfortunate end with one of my trapdoors.

Lefevre, however, is clearly not a reasonable man. The fool complains in the quiet of my salary. He is not taking into account that without my help, this opera house would have failed to survive years before he ever entered into its management. For a year he has whined enough to make me tighten a hand around my lasso more than once, but for the most part he follows my instructions, unmistakably due to his natural and proper fear of me, and therefore we settle with each other…despite my distaste for his terribly discoloured moustache.

My thoughts are interrupted by the graceful footsteps that can be made only by a ballerina, and I know my time has come, and my purpose is about to establish itself and seal my fate. I remind myself not to let this moment be lost on me. The dressing room's doors swing open, and through them enters my Madeleine, and behind her, clinging to her hand, my Christine.

Madame Giry does not know of my mirror tricks. I suspect she doesn't know a transparent side of a mirror is even possible. That works to my advantage; though I will not ever spy on her while she dresses, I can watch as she pretties her hair before her reflection, or dances when she thinks she cannot be seen, and imagine that it is my eyes she is looking into and not her own.

"Ahhh," comes a sigh from Christine's young throat, as she spins slowly to absorb her surroundings.

"Do you like it, Christine?" enquires Madeleine, and she too lets her gaze wander about the room—though she isn't taking in its magnificence as the child is, she is looking for me.

"Father said that I would have a dressing room like this," she breathes, "when I became a great and famous singer."

My eyes break away from Madeleine so I can grin at Christine.

"Well, child, it is not fame that gives you this dressing room," Madame murmurs, and I notice her searching the closet as she hangs Christine's three dresses and ballet uniform. The closet? Does she really deem me that unoriginal?

"Oh no," the little girl replies. "It is a gift from my Angel of Music."

I am startled, and Madeleine spins. "What was that?"

Christine bounces into the sofa, her wild curls flipping into the air. "Father said the Angel always gave Little Lotte the right gifts that would make her into a star. Of course this good luck is because of Father's Angel!"

Madame Giry's eyes remain fixed on Christine, and my heart is leaping with something akin to giddiness, which I have never felt even once! …but I know enough about human beings to match a word with the sensation. Then, the Angel of Music is to bestow upon his pupil gifts of such material nature? With the dressing room, therefore, I have moved strategically without any conscious effort. Gustave Daae was a very intuitive man; either that, or God truly did mean for me to be an Angel before He banished me to this disfigured visage. Erik's protests die completely at Christine's words, and for the first time since my plan began to unfold from the depths of my mind, I feel that I am, indeed, finally, doing something right.

And finally—for the first time in years—the Phantom and Erik are one again, united! I am whole, and it is not lost on my heart, and I want to sigh, but I don't; Madame may hear me. Someday, she will.

I am ready to be the Angel of Music, and nothing else. I cannot keep the smile from my face.

…

Madame Giry

My search proved fruitless, as it always did. It was entirely against my nature to simply give up, though common sense mocked me. I wanted to sigh in resignation, but I knew he would hear it and it would only feed is arrogant satisfaction. My gaze returned to Christine, and before I knew it, I was crouching before her, my arms around her. "Miss Daae," I spoke into her hair, and she embraced me as well. "I am so glad you came to us."

She kissed my head, and for whatever strange reason that such things happened, I wanted to cry. I did not want to let her go. Letting her go meant leaving the room, and leaving the room meant leaving her by herself. Something was wrong, and I could not place it…and uncertainty I hated more than most.

Whatever it was, though, I was sure it had to do with me.

I released her, and instructed her to be ready by eight o'clock for ballet lessons. She set her little bag down and began to explore the fine room, wording her compliance, and I let my eyes survey the architecture once more before making my way out to the great doors.

"What are you doing, Erik," I murmured as they shut behind me. I listened at the door for a few moments but heard nothing unusual, and found myself wondering if he was yet in there at all.

…

Erik

The foolish woman! She thinks I don't know she is listening behind the door.

She is protective of Christine, the way she was protective of me when I was a child. Before his death, she had raised her brother Henri after the demise of their parents when he was hardly walking. The maternal nature imbedded in Madame at such a young age has never left her. Even when she casts her gaze about the Opera looking for me. I can detect her sense of parental authority even when dealing with O.G.

After all these years, she still mourns her brother. She still wants him when she sees me, after all we've been through!

I wait rather impatiently for her to leave, and it strikes me suddenly: this is the first time I can remember that I do not want her near me. My eyes wander to Christine. She has no grasp of just how important she is, and just how much she is influencing my life, and dominating my thoughts.

Finally, I hear Madame Giry walk away.

The little girl runs her hands along the walls, and she throws her gaze to the ceiling, but the carefree smile that brightened her features moments ago is absent. Instead, her lip is trembling and her brow is knitted across her forehead. I think on this for a moment—she has learnt her own façade, as she clearly only feigned her happiness for Madame's sake. "Father," she whispers, and I lean in to hear her. "I almost don't believe in the Angel at all."

For a moment I panic, and nearly lose my grip on the wrapped instrument. Almost. She said almost, I reassure myself, and my confidence begins to build. When better to reinstate her belief than when it is almost lost? At her lowest, she will be most vulnerable. There is a verse in the Bible that I have always found fascinating, and it reads something like this: "My grace is sufficient for thee: for My strength is made perfect in weakness." If such a claim does well for God and His manipulative intents, it will work for a well-meaning Angel the same.

Christine sits on the floor in front of the elegant sofa and closes her eyes.

Carefully, soundlessly, I unwrap the violin from my cloak.

A moment later, tears stream down her cheeks.

It is here, the moment. I do not move, I do not breathe—I only think. Is this what you want to do? Are you willing to disrupt your anonymous existence for the sake of this child? I stare at her, wondering if my heart still beats. I watch her thin white arms as they hug her knees, as if she wishes only to protect herself from the broken promises of the world she knew, and the loneliness she doesn't want to believe in. If I do this, I will be her path to her father—and she will be my path to my Madeleine.

Yes, I answer. This is what I want to do.

I rest the instrument against my shoulder and savour the cool, glossy surface against my warm jaw. Laying delicately the bow atop the strings, I take my final breath as a mortal and a ghost, and sing without accompaniment: "Christine…. Christine…."

Christine's eyes flutter open.

I pull the bow gently. The smoothness of the sound rounds each tone with trembling vibrato…a half note, two quarter notes, and a half note again…a B, an A and a G, an A again…and for the bewildered Christine, I play the melody to her father's Lotte's Lullaby.

My hand drags backward, and I repeat the melody, this time adding my voice, with my own lyrics.

"Wandering child

"So lost, so helpless

"Yearning for my guidance."

I pause, my soothing baritone echoing slightly from the walls of the passage, the sound filtering into the dressing room. She does not respond, though the violin music continues. Her large brown eyes shoot again to the ceiling, and her hands drop from her knees. I will have to teach her, I decide then, to respond to me when I sing to her, and to respond to me in song. But for now, her silence is acceptable.

"Christine, do you know who I am?" I enquire softly, mustering every bit of compassion I've ever felt and coating my words with it. It is almost easy to muster compassion if I centre my thoughts on my Madeleine. Christine's expression remains wide-eyed and panicked, but she does not move, or speak. She is terrified. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to think of what to do—what this Angel would do. "Do you know who I am, Christine?" I repeat.

Her mouth slightly moves. "No," comes the small sound from her lips.

I let the melody fill up the silence, drawing the music out of the violin in a lesser volume. "Do you recognise this violin?"

She moves her head then, as if looking around her, trying to locate the origination of the sound. "It's my father's violin!" she exclaims suddenly, and she moves to her knees. "Where is it?"

"I have it, Christine," I say gently, matching the quality of my voice to the strains of the instrument. "It was your father's gift to me when he joined us."

"My father gave you his violin?" Her expression lights up, and she inhales eagerly. "I know who you are!"

"Your father told you he would send me," I add through a smile.

"He did, I knew he would," she sputters happily, and I see something new in her eyes for the first time. Joy. She is remarkably beautiful when her eyes are coloured with joy! "He promised, and you came, just like he said you would." She stands and stretches her arms, and falters thereafter. "I'm ever so sorry, you must have heard me, I'm so sorry I almost stopped believing in you."

"You needn't be sorry, child," I assure, administering my soulful strokes to the strings and to my voice. "Your faith has been strong."

She smiles again, and the tears that fell before glisten atop her dimples. My heart fills with pride—selfless pride, and I marvel at the strange satisfaction of selflessness. "How is he, then?" she asks breathlessly.

I thought this through, of course, before coming. "He watches you, and speaks of nothing else to the other Angels."

"Does he miss me? Because I miss him."

"Christine, I am here so you don't have to miss him," I say carefully. This is the moment when I become her salvation, and I am determined not to destroy my one chance. "When you think of him, think of me, and do not cry—for I will be with you always." It is in this instant that I realise I cannot allow myself to die, or everything will be ruined.

Christine nods, and she puts her hands on her cheeks, unable to contain her grin. "Wait 'til Madame and Meg find out," she croons. "They'll never—"

"Christine," I interject, and she is silenced. "Do not speak to them of me. They will come to understand in time, and in my timing. Not yet."

She nods furiously. "Not yet. I won't tell them anything. You can be my secret Angel."

I continue to play, my head dipping, not daring to take for granted just how perfectly implemented this plan has become. "Christine, do you know why I am here?" I realise that I have been using her name over and over again, but I love the way it rolls off of my tongue, and apparently, so does she.

"So I don't miss my father," she says instantly, and giggles a bit.

"Why else?"

Her eyes sparkle, and she opens her mouth, but just as quickly shuts it.

I wait.

"Well," she begins. "Little Lotte, of course."

The corner of my smile disappears underneath my mask. If she saw it, she would surely shrink back in terror. "Little Lotte."

"Yes." She smiles sheepishly.

The music rounds into the bridge perfectly in time. I sing:

"Heaven sent Lotte her Angel

"Lotte was granted her wings

"Heaven itself kneels to listen

"To the words she sings!"

Christine brightens visibly at the words, and at the clear beauty of my voice—my only beauty. She opens her mouth then, but no sound comes out. "Go on," I urge, and suddenly, without reservation, she finishes the song:

"Angel of Music, guide and guardian

"Grant to me your glory!

"Angel of Music, hide no longer

"Secret and strange Angel!"

Purity, in that sound. And passion—the passion I so immediately noticed lacking when I first heard her sing, that passion now enriches her song, and I am overcome with it's loveliness. My hand stays the note on the violin as long as she spends her breath on it, and I end it as she does.

She stands there, in the middle of the floor, breathless, like me.

My heart pounds.

She whirls in a circle, looking for the Angel, her hands trembling with delight.

"Christine," I whisper, and she again glances at the ceiling. "I will have no trouble teaching you at all."

And we both stand in silence, for a full moment, before she whispers back, in tones as soft as a mourning dove: "I love you."

My head snaps back, and I tighten my grip on the violin. I blink several times and swallow, and behind a stark wall of blankness my mind spins. Her face is serene and slightly shy, ignorant of the power she is capable of. Her claim stains my soul with its suddenness and gentle conviction, and my heart rises to my throat.

Before this day, I have never heard those words.

"I love you too, Christine," I breathe. "More than you could ever imagine."

The door rattles in its frame, and I jerk, but Christine doesn't even flinch. Her eyes remain on the ceiling. I love her, and I told her, believing it in that moment as I've never believed in anything, regardless of how I may regret it later.

"Christine!" cries little Meg, and she bursts into the room locking her arm with her friend, her eyes taking in every little detail. "I know, isn't it beautiful?" she chirps, noting Christine's expression of wonder. "Maman never let me in here before, but now that it belongs to you, she won't mind, really!"

Christine's eyes leave the ceiling, and she smiles at her friend. Her voice is silk-like and faraway, so unlike the high-pitch and timbre of Madame's daughter. "Yes, Meg." That is all she says before walking to the closet and running her fingers over her ballet uniform.

"Hurry now, Christine," sings Meg as she leaves the room. "Lessons begin in only ten minutes."

The door shuts.

Christine remains still by the closet.

"Lessons begin tonight," I call softly, and she smiles into her dresses. "When you are ready, I will be in here waiting for you."

Casting one last look at my child, I withdraw into the shadows of the passage, my heart racing, my eyes burning, and my head light with the sweet stupour of triumph. The trial has ended; the moment has passed. There is nothing that can possibly go wrong now, and I know this to be true. I love, and am loved in return—and that is all I have ever asked of God, and the world.

How unexpected, that it should come in the forme of a child.

A/N…Sorry for the rip-off of Wandering Child…under most circumstances, I would have created my own lyrics, but I thought WC lyrics fit nicely and added a bit of foreshadowing. And worry not—this is not the end of Dark Erik. Merely a bit of a diversion.