Hope you'll like the next chapter, and happy reading! :)

*-* Erik III – The Letter

He was a coward. More than a century old, and still he was afraid of the slightest girl. Much like he was, before. He should have known better, now, but who could he fool? He didn't look different from those days – and how he wished he could! Inside, he was back to those days approaching his Angel in her dressing room. How he had fled, too, that first time when he had made himself known.

Back then his fear of being known had made things difficult for the start. He could see that now. This time, he had to show himself for who he was. After all, what had he to lose? Nothing.

He didn't like her, didn't love her, and nothing would change if she went out screaming when he revealed himself.

The gods knew he was used to it now. And yet, in the forgotten place where his heart used to beat, he knew he would badly bear the rejection.

But better do it now, and suffer a little bit, than wait, and still bear the marks a hundred years later.

Then how?

He couldn't just go out and introduce himself. He hadn't done that in hundred years… Had he ever done it, at all? He couldn't remember. Even a century ago, with his old friends, it had never been properly done. His mask made introductions awkward. And after he'd become a vampire, more so.

When they'd died, he'd stayed alone. A thing of the past, locked away, no one to remember him, to think of him, when he could still remember everything, everyone. Would always bear their marks on his unbeating, aching heart.

But this was a new opportunity. Perhaps the chance to move on, finally, to let go of his old shackles.

Back in the safety of his halls, he strode to his bedroom. There stood the old oaken desk he still used for correspondence. With the passing of the years, he had had all the time to improve his letters. Now, he had a somewhat passable handwriting. The cruel irony, of course, was that by now, the shiny computer he'd bought was making the damn thing useless.

But he was nothing if not stubborn, and he would make his efforts pay, to write her a letter the way he had painstakingly learnt.

The paper was heavy and creamy, a nice, delicate thing he was still receiving yearly by his favorite stationary seller back in the capital. One of the few things he was still buying from up there. He'd found a great candle maker, with a hundred different perfumes as he'd only dreamt back then, in a little town he'd bribed into shipping him several boxes a year, no questions asked.

Now, what to write her?

"Hello, I'm a vampire and I like your singing very much"

Could he be more childish if he tried? He thought not.

"I heard you last night and I thought you were very good. By the way, I'm a vampire and ugly."

Even worse. He'd sworn after the last mess that he had let his creepy days behind. Now wasn't the time to begin again.

Thirty-three attempts later, and a raging headache burgeoning (could this happen for vampires?), he'd finally penned what could pass for a plausible invitation to hear her again.

"Dearest Singer,

Last night, I was just wandering through the fields and happened to hear you. I would very much like to make your acquaintance in a more appropriate way. I'm sorry if I frightened you last night, it was never my intent. I would understand if you did not consider my invitation, but please know I shall be in the vicinity tonight, should you happen to sing again and wish to make a friend.

Yours in fondness,

Erik."

Now that was… Acceptable. He'd come a long way since his muttering, blubbering days, thankfully, but that didn't mean he had mastered the uses of conversation. And if he had, they had changed a lot in a century.

He was a fool to even try.

But still he set out to post it directly into her letterbox.

The sun was climbing already, and he had to burrow himself in layers of clothes so as not to burn.

All in black, frail and tall, in black layers, he almost looked like a reaper, at dawn like this, wandering through the fields. He was too quick to be seen, unless he wished to be, and that, too, had been one of the highlights of his becoming a vampire.

He came back, new hope a strange thing in his missing heart, and went to sleep.

*-* Christine III – The Letter

She had this letter in hand, and did not know what to make of it. A polite stranger. A bit creepy, but polite. He wished to hear her again, and meet her.

Why?

Was it an elaborate joke?

After all, he hadn't answered to her call, and some part of her wondered if she'd really seen him. If that Erik wasn't just some trick of her mind, an animal she'd frightened away with her cries.

Silly, but… This was sillier. To think someone would take the time to send her a letter, to write her something like that instead of just going out to meet with her in the day…

If he was real, then he was stranger than everyone else she knew.

And that name…

Erik.

That name… Was it fate, perhaps? To have that name she'd cherished all her childhood thrown at her, like that, when she could still see from the corner of her eyes her teddy bear on her windowsill?

But it was no dream.

The paper she held was beautiful, heavy, probably expensive. Ancient-looking, too. The handwriting was careful, each stroke decisive and precise, as if every word had been purposefully set down.

A very real invitation.

Either she would sing tonight, knowing there would be a strange man waiting for her, or keep silent, and perhaps even leave altogether...

But her curiosity was high and aroused, and her stubbornness left her reluctant to stop what had become a beloved habit, to sing her heart out at night, when the day was ugly and unfair.

It had been day when her father had gone. A cold, empty morning. Winter light, garish and bleak. She'd sought comfort in the night instead, afterwards. Could pretend he wasn't gone. Could pretend he was still asleep in the next room, and she didn't have to face breakfast and dinner alone. Coming back to an empty house. Dealing with all the stuff no woman should have to deal with so young. He'd still been so very young…

At night, she could play pretend, could almost believe she wasn't an orphan.

Night was her time, now, her only solace, and she needed it.

That stranger would not take it away from her.

Tonight she would be ready to meet with him. On her own terms.

And who knew?

After all, if he really had been taken by her singing, maybe she wasn't so bad…

When night came again, she was ready. She had warmed up her voice, and sat down on the roof as the sun began to set on the top of the hills behind her, the grass and vines covered in soft reddish and pink light. It was still pleasantly warm, and the wind was gently blowing in her hair.

The promise of a beautiful, delightful night, the sky a deep blue that bordered on purple, not a single cloud to be seen.

She looked at the fields around her, wondering if the stranger – Erik – would really come. Was he already there, hiding in the bushes? She couldn't see anything yet, and had surveyed the property earlier, but who knew?

The sun finally sank into the earth, the light now a shade of mauve, and she took a deep breath.

She felt it again.

The wind had quieted, like a deep mantle had covered her world, soft and dark. No more noises, no more movements, but the golden eyes in a shadow, not far from her.

He didn't move, didn't blink, just stayed there, still and hidden, his eyes fixed on her.

She breathed again, and let out her voice, softly at first, like a lullaby welcoming the arrival of the night, one of the earliest she had known, tender and nurturing. She always felt peaceful when the lyrics and the melody washed over her, wrapping her in a blanket-like softness.

It is time for the night, time for sleeping, time for lovers and babes in their beds

Time for the moon shining overhead,

Time for the stars and the poets,

Sleep tight, little one, hush now,

I'll always be here, when the night comes, and the night goes,

I'll always love you, in darkness and in light, when the moon is high and the moon is low, when the stars appear and the stars go out,

Never fear the fading of the light,

It is like my love, all-encompassing, gentle and infinite.

Now the tears had come again, but they were soft and gentle, moved by beauty rather than fear and pain.

All along, she hadn't looked at him, eyes closed to really feel what she was singing, but now she couldn't help but seek him out.

Had he liked it? Had he gone? Was he planning on something dreadful?

Yet she didn't feel threatened, or frightened. Somehow, his presence didn't raise her red flags. He felt surprisingly comfortable, there, with her, but not infringing on her space. Emboldened, she started again, something a bit more cheerful, that really showed off the color of her voice, vibrant and round, with deep lows and clear highs, her enunciation precise and strong. From there, from song to song, she went on, belting at times and soft at others, a real concert that she thought she'd never do again for a real crowd after that awful last performance.

And to finish, an Aria, one of her guilty pleasures, from Faust. In French, because it was always easier to sing in her native tongue, especially opera.

Closing her eyes again, she was Marguerite, a young woman, joyful and lively, finally finding her own beauty.

"Ah ! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir."