*-* Erik IV – The meeting

He'd been listening intently, careful not to move, not to put her under his spell, the way he still knew how, knowing the kind of magnetic appeal he could produce at times, even without his voice. This time, though, he wouldn't do it. Bad things had happened when he'd done that with Her, and his dreams (for he still dreamed) would never let him forget it.

It'd been easy, so easy, back then, to play with his voice, to make her like him, to use it to frighten and to entice. Even before he'd become a vampire, his voice had been his greatest asset. Now he had all the vampire powers backing his abilities. His natural talent, and the longing he'd possessed towards her, had made him irresistible. Not that she'd been completely reluctant to come, either. He may be a monster, but he wasn't that kind of monster. He'd never harmed women, for once, nor children.

And when she'd been gone, and left him, he'd stopped killing and frightening altogether. The habit had tingled his hands, like an itch he'd wanted scratched, but the thought of disappointing her had stopped him. Even in death, she'd held a power over him far too great to fight. Now he felt nothing, no compulsion to take out his anger and frustration on the world. He had learnt his lesson, almost a century too late.

She'd sung, sweetly and softly, putting her whole soul into it, and he'd been moved, just as he'd had before. Then she'd changed, and it suited her well, too, but he'd felt increasingly nervous, her voice almost too perfect at times, bringing with it unwelcomed memories.

And then she'd sung Faust.

He'd had to repress a gasp, when she'd launched into that ill-fated melody, but couldn't contain another plaintive moan as she'd finished, the echo still burning his ears.

He hadn't listened to it since Her. Had purposely avoided it, all these years. To hear it again, with such approaching perfection to Hers…

He cried out again.

And she heard it.

She'd almost forgotten he was there, listening, when that noise threw her out of her concentration, and the last note felt a bit too sharp. Heart beating almost too fast, she sought him out with her eyes, and called to him:

"Erik? Is it you?"

The moment had come. She was calling to him. He thought he'd been prepared, but his hands were shaking, his legs trembling. If he still had a heart, it would be ringing loud and strong.

He had to do it.

He still wore his masks, had never let them go, even after his favorite Parisian maker had gone away and he'd had to learn to make them himself. Endless time meant he was always looking for new pursuits, and making his own masks had allowed him to fill a void, if only for a few months. Now, with new, modern materials available, he'd been able to make some for different occasions. Not that he'd been able to test them out in real company, but it was always better to be prepared.

He'd spent part of the afternoon getting himself ready for that encounter. A nice, black silk suit, comfortable and airy to withstand the heat, his favorite hat, and his white mask, to cover his face, but let him speak and see. This one was almost handsome, if he could say so himself.

Despite his singer's lungs, he felt out of breath, shaking. He hadn't done that in so long… But no more pretending and hiding away.

He could do it.

He took a first step out of the shadows, then a second one, slowly, so as not to frighten her, and emerged into the moonlight.

She held her breath as the shape she'd seen in the bushes came forward. Just as the previous night, he was tall and lean, all in black. And… While he was handsome, there was something about his face that didn't feel quite right, a bit off. Still, in the darkness, she couldn't see more of him.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle."

She froze, a long shudder down her back, goosebumps on her arms. His voice… She had never heard a voice like this. If she'd believed in the supernatural, like in some of her favorite stories, she could liken his voice to a mermaid's. Pure, delicate, low and deep all at the same time. She wanted him to say that "mademoiselle" again, shaping out the syllables one at a time, carefully, distinctly. And the sound of it. His tone was rich, almost melodic, and seducing. Calling her to him.

He advanced a bit, tilting his head towards her.

"Good evening," he repeated, just a bit louder.

She snapped back into her body, awkwardness rising, but she found her voice at last.

"Good evening, Monsieur. Are you Erik, the one who sent me that letter?"

"I am."

He bowed low, and approached her again. Now he was just under her, on the path. His eyes glowed in the semi-darkness.

"You sang beautifully tonight," he said.

Again, it was a struggle to find her voice, when his almost hypnotized her.

"Thank you."

Silence fell, as they both looked at each other. The night was quiet, an almost dream-like quality to it. All of nature had gone mute, perhaps to hear him better.

Now was not the time for tales and fantasies, she mentally scolded herself. This was real. And yet something about him… No. She was being silly, letting her imagination get the best of her.

"I… I must say I am very pleased to meet you," he began again. "You have a voice the likes of which I have not witnessed in a very, very long time."

She almost snorted, bitterly.

"Thank you, but it seems the rest of the world does not think like you."

So she had been rejected. He knew it. Had felt it in her voice, in her song, the previous nights.

"Fools, all of them," he commented harshly.

"I'm sorry to ask that, but… Who are you? A singer yourself? I mean… I'm very pleased to hear that you like my singing, but…"

"You are wise to question my judgement. These days, everyone fancies himself a singer and an artist. You and I both know it takes a lifetime of work, and a gift, to make a career out of this. I sing, too. I would sing for you, but you might want to get off the roof first. It… might not be safe."

What an arrogant man. When he had seemed shy earlier, now he was haughty and contemptuous.

She got up, a bitter smile on her lips.

"Thank you again for your compliments, monsieur, but I don't want to criticize other people in order to succeed. I think you should leave."

And his behavior changed again, all disdain evaporated from him, almost desperate now.

"Please don't… Don't ask me to leave… I…"

Losing faith in his words, he started to sing.

She sat back down abruptly, tears rising from her eyes. That voice… That song… It almost unmade her, she could taste the grief and sorrow he sang of on her tongue, feel the harshness of his contempt for the world, and yet his great desire to be part of it, recognized by it. He had faced so much pain and fear. It was all there, in his song, in the melody if not the words. She had never heard it, but it was plain to her ears and her mind.

When it seemed she had no more tears to cry, he stopped. In the blink of an eye, he was by her side, holding out a silk handkerchief. His hands were beautiful, impossibly long fingers and pale white skin, almost translucent in the dark.

"I am so very sorry I made you cry, mademoiselle…"

"Christine," she sniffed into his cloth.

He took a step away from her, as if struck by lightning. His eyes had become terrified.

"It can't be..."

"What?"

"Good night, mademoiselle. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

And just like that, the strange, sad man had disappeared.

He didn't stop running until he was back into his manor, and the darkness of his chambers. Taking his mask off, his hat off, he threw himself down on the cold ground and held his knees, shaking with the pain that had overwhelmed him.

It couldn't be… What sort of strange sorcery was that? Was she… Reborn? Was that possible? Or was she just a simple coincidence? Why tempt him like that? Were the forces of this universe so angry with him they had sent him another Angel to make him miserable? A beautiful voice to captivate him, fire and gentleness to undo him, and then taking her from him because he didn't deserve any of it. He'd done too much evil to ever be worthy of any companionship.

He knew that. Thought he'd come to accept that this was his lot in life. And death, too, or whatever this existence was, but… How could it still hurt so much, as if a hundred and thirty-two years were nothing?

Now he had to stay away, for his own good, and hers. She didn't need any strange creatures around her. She could try again whatever audition she'd missed, and then she would be out of his reach. End of story.

His body shook under the weight of his cries, but still, no tears.

And through it all, he could hear her voice in his mind, her longing speaking to his soul.

How he had felt it resonate with his own, how he could have given her music to make her happy again. They could have made beautiful music together. Just like he'd wanted to do with Her…

She had accepted his invitation! She had looked at his mask, and not left.

Now all he'd done had been making her cry and despise him. As always, he destroyed all he touched.

Why was she Christine?

His thoughts were hazy and mad with grief, enhanced by time and loneliness.

Who had he wanted to fool? He had better stay alone, secluded and unable to hurt anyone else. Or to be hurt further.

Fifty years ago he would have played all night long, and the next day too to shake away the reminders of what a monster he was, great enough to be sent another aching Christine to his door. Tonight he could not even move from the ground, would not even get up and sleep in his coffin. He stayed there, holding himself like a crying child, lost to his memories.