*-* Erik VI - A new Dawn

Morning came, and a stronger scent reached him. A pulse, and fast heartbeat.

Lost in his music, and the ecstasy of composing again, it almost did not break through to him. But several lifetimes of being keenly aware of his surroundings had made him notice the slightest change in his environment. Such as his lovely guest's quickened breathing.

She was waking up.

Panic rushed through him. He hadn't bathed! Nor changed! He was still in yesterday's clothes!

And had barely time to do it all before she came to her senses…

Abandoning his pen and carefully laying the violin down, he hurried to the bathroom, bathed and put some other clothes, and readjusted the mask. He hadn't taken it off, all night long, not even fearing what might happen if she woke up and found him without. It was such a habit now, to keep it on and changing only when his face was becoming sore or to clean it, that he hadn't given it a thought.

She had barely stirred when he gently opened the door and greeted his guest.

*-* Christine VI

She woke up, in a cocoon of warmth and a foreign scent in her nose. Fire, ashes and herbs… Something reminded her of home: lavender and citrus. She kept her eyes closed, clutching her blanket tighter.

It was not a blanket.

It was too light and the material seemed too precious, like flowing silk to be a blanket.

She opened her eyes and sat up, heart beating fast.

Erik!

She'd fallen asleep, right in the middle of his song. How terribly rude of her! There was no light, the windows heavily covered.

"You're awake," he casually remarked as he strode into the room, beginning to light all the candles around them. "Good morning, my dear."

"Yes…. I'm sorry I fell asleep. You should have woken me up."

"And risk you driving off the cliff returning home and killing yourself? I do not think so."

She sat up. She was hungry, now, but well-rested, the nagging curiosity and longing to find him and listen to his voice finally soothed.

"Still, you should have." She gestured to the windows. "Why don't you open the curtains? It's still cool outside, the heat will not enter."

"I happen to be very light-sensitive, my dear, and would rather not open these. Besides, are candles not a lovely sight? And their smell? Exquisite, is it not?"

He finished lighting what was perhaps the hundredth candelabra in the room, and carefully, slowly approached her.

His mask was on again, its beautiful details revealed by the soft light, hiding his expression, but not the curve of his mouth. How it fascinated her, the way his lips moved, the strong and yet gentle way he pronounced every word. So in control of each breath. Her own was not so lacking, but she felt terribly inexperienced when his was absolute perfection.

"Thank you for singing for me," she said softly.

"It was my pleasure."

Silence came again.

"I should probably go," she said. "I mean, thank you for letting me in, and sleep here, I hope I wasn't too much of a bother…"

"You're not," he quickly assured her. "You can stay, if you want. I… I have some clothes, and…"

"You must be busy, I wouldn't want to disturb you."

She wanted to leave.

She didn't want to disturb him.

"Christine," he said gently. "It was my pleasure to have you as a guest here."

The way he said her name… Nobody had ever said it like that. Gentle and careful, and… Would she admit it? With utmost care and delicacy. Like she was the most precious thing in his eyes.

She shivered, and couldn't hear the rest of his sentence.

"Say my name again," she asked, looking at him in the eyes. He was still away from her, keeping a respectful distance, but the way his eyes shone, golden and intense… She felt like she was but a feet away from him.

And she could feel something, too, in the air around them. Both light and heavy with intention. Purpose.

He was silent for a while, his mask hiding his expression, but his mouth gently curled into the whisper of a smile.

"Christine," he repeated, to her delight.

He had loved the name, she was absolutely sure of it. There was no denying it. Vibrant and musical this time.

How she loved his voice… She could drown in it, and she was relutant to part from him and his wonderful instrument.

"Will you stay for breakfast?"

His question was more than it seemed, like it meant a lot more. Part apology, part aknowledgement of what had happened.

"I would love to."

She rose from the sofa, and he led her to another room.

"I have left some clothes for you, if you desire to change. You can take your time. I'll be waiting for you when you're ready."

She would never get over his voice. Even the most mundane sentence became a delightful, bright and wondrous invitation.

With him, she could hardly find her own, when she was usually so proud of it. She had worked on it for nearly her entire life, all 23 years of it, but faced with his… She still had a long way to go.

Perhaps… Perhaps he could teach her? Show her how to wield her voice the way he did his?

She nodded, noticing he was still holding the door for her.

"Thank you."

She stepped inside, and heard his light but purposeful steps ring across the tiled floor. The room was beautiful. Ancient but well-mantained, the way she loved. A big tub of cast iron covered by white porcelain, with adorned bronze feet and a bronze faucet, shining as if it had been set up yesterday. He hadn't bothered with candles, this time, electric appliances giving out a soft, dimmed white light. No windows, but she could hear very faintly a whirr from the ventilation system, keeping the air sane.

Above another porcelain sink stood a little shelf with his expensive perfume, toothbrush and hairbrush. No mirror. A skin cream too.

It felt bizarrely intimate, to stand in a stranger's bathroom filled with his belongings. His face, hidden by a mask, must have been a source of great discomfort for him, if the lack of mirror and the cream were any indication. She did not know what to feel. Curiosity, most of all. How terrible was it, if he did not wish to see it for himself, doing his care blindly?

The mystery only ever grew.

On a rail were freshly-laundered clothes, the scent of lavender and citrus delicate in the air. They were her size, too, and she didn't know whether to feel grateful or angry at the way he'd correctly assessed her body.

She quickly showered, amazed at how perfect this water felt against her skin. It was a bit sensitive, as he'd said his was, and she loved its smooth caress, fresh as mineral water. Whatever treatment he'd used to purify his house supply was a wonder of design. Like moonlight made liquid.

The more she thought about him, the more she was drawn in. He lived alone and secluded, despite a beautiful voice that would put the entire opera world to shame. He wore a mask, and had carefully assembled a house where he could take proper care of it.

He was perfectly nice and gentlemanly, with her.

And yet he bore undescriptible pain and sorrow in his soul.

What was his story? What had happened to him? She wanted to know more than anything at the moment. She loved stories, had collected them like precious stones kept on a beautiful velvet pillow, and deep down she knew his could be her most compelling yet.

So many pieces, and in her mind she wanted to begin to assemble them all.

She stepped out of the tube and quickly dried herself. The towels he'd let out for her were of softest cotton, and felt heavenly against her skin. She was almost reluctant to change into the simple T-shirt and pants he'd also prepared for her.

She'd never worn clothes like that, so beautifully made, from such high-quality linen, and yet they were very simple. To freely give his guests such exquisite gifts, he must have been very rich, too.

She opened the door and followed the smell of freshly-baked bread and viennoiseries, into a kitchen as dark as his living room had been. Old wooden furniture and more candles. It would have been very nice for a candlelit dinner, but was a bit eerie for breakfast. Especially since the air outside would have been cool enough to eat on a terrasse. It wasn't like he didn't have the space, for his property was a lot bigger than hers, or lacked privacy, for his closest neighboors were a good five kilometers away.

He was sitting very straight and proper on a stool at the counter, and got up to help her sit down. She'd only seen that in movies before…

"What would you like?"

"Bread and whatever jam you have will be fine, please."

He turned towards the oven, a monstrous, huge thing on the wall, alimented by an aperture beneath it and big enough to cook four pizzas at the same time. At the moment croissants and pains au chocolat were being baked, as well as warm bread.

He took the bread out, protecting his perfect hands with heat gloves, and held it on a plate in front of her. From a cupboard he showed her the different kinds of jams he had, including her favorite.

"Nutella?"

Yes.

The smell was unbelievable. How did he have all these things for breakfast when he was so thin? She could see it, too, how his beautiful suit was perfectly tailored, but didn't fully hide how skinny he was. When he'd held out her chair for her, she'd noticed how he towered over her, too.

"A viennoiserie, perhaps? And to drink? Juice? Milk? Coffee? Tea?"

"Water, please. It's better for my voice."

These things he did for her, the way he'd done so long ago, how quickly they came back. This domesticity had been all he'd ever wanted, long ago. Now he had a chance to do it again, properly, for someone who actually wanted him around, and he'd be truly dead and buried before he let it go.

She might be only here for his voice, but she was here, nonetheless, of her own free will, and he'd happily pretend his vampire powers had nothing to do with it.

And her last comment… He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Long ago, his Christine would prettily pout when he'd gently told her dairy products would not serve her voice well. She'd loved milk.

Here, he didn't have to tell her. But at the same time, it broke his heart.

How similar they were, and yet, how different. He alone, in this mess, had not aged or disappeared or changed, too much. His core, his heart, was the same empty vessel, aching for more. Aching, longing for anything, really. Beauty, love, art.

Connection, too.

She looked into his eyes, and did not flee. Did she see the mask, too? Or had he managed to fool her? He didn't know. She smiled, too. How he was loving her smile.

He gave her what she asked for, and settled his long limbs into a chair, by her side, content to watch her eat.

Something so simple, and yet it would nearly bring tears to his eyes. But he couldn't.

Her scent, now, was fresh and airy, with earthy undertones. The way the woods would smell after a summer rain. Despite having drunk his fill the previous night, he could already feel his fangs sharpen a bit, and the thirst flare in his throat. Manageable, of course, but… An unwanted guest, this morning.

"You're not eating?" she asked as she ate.

"I've already eaten. I'm sorry I couldn't wait for you, I was rather hungry."

It was true, all of it, and she bought it.

"It's alright, you're very kind in letting me eat your food, I wouldn't let you starve in your own home."

The tone in her voice was gently teasing, and her smile showed it was alright. She truly didn't mind.

"I hope everything is to your liking," he added.

"Everything is perfect, thank you very much. "

How much he cared, it thrilled her.

She finished her meal, and looked back to him. All along, he'd taken special care not to stare at her eating, but now she could feel his gaze back on her every movement. She had never been looked at like that. Even… Even him, back when they were dating… She couldn't remember such a profound intensity in his eyes.

Except when she was performing, and playing at being someone else, she'd never really liked being looked at. It always brought her anxiety, and she'd try to avoid those situations at all costs.

But even as a stranger, his gaze wasn't disturbing. Or scary. Or made her want to curl into a ball and disappear.

His eyes…

They were warm, accepting.

And who did she want to fool? After last night, and the week she'd spent looking for him, he didn't feel like a stranger so much. She had no idea where this came from, if it even was possible to feel this at ease with someone she'd just met, but… There was this connection, between them, as real and tangible as a golden wire, linking them, their love for music, for singing. Their appreciation of each other's talent, perhaps?

Even with her fellow singers and musicians, even with her father, the one who'd taught her everything she'd known about the arts, there had never been this easiness.

It was surprisingly comfortable, being here with him, sat at his breakfast table, with his candles and his impeccable suit and his amazing, beautiful hands. And even his strange masked face.

And though he was silent, now, content to spend undisturbed, quiet time with her, she could never forget his amazing, powerful voice.

"Would you teach me how to sing like you do?" she blurted out. "I would pay you, of course, but… With your guidance, I might be able to impress the judges on my next audition, next spring?"

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, the next one is about singing lessons, be sure to be there! Thanks for reading everyone!