An: thank you all for the kind reviews!

There is a scene in this chapter that will seem a bit out of nowhere and admittedly is disjointed with the rest of the story- however, it is a scene that ties in with a companion piece that we have already written and will post eventually, so we decided to keep it in here. :)

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He Lover Me; He Is Here

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"And weeks pass, and months pass; time runs dry. Still I ache down to the core. My broken soul can't be alive and whole, 'til I hear you sing once more." - Love Never Dies, Andrew Lloyd Weber

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Chapter 16

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The following evening, Christine was in her usual practice room, waiting with bated breath, but her teacher did not show. Nor did Erik show the next day, nor the day after that. After ten days of waiting, Christine finally gave up and did not visit the practice room again.

Her voice did not suffer too much for it, but her heart did and it showed in her singing. Beautiful, yet hollow, people called it.

Faust closed and was heralded as a tremendous success. La Traviata was to open in less than a week and Christine, as planned, would sing as Violetta, the lead. After a handful of rather large, violent scenes, Carlotta was taken to Germany to sing in a small, unhaunted opera house and Christine was left in peace.

Christine pinched her eyes closed as an arm wrapped around her waist. She looked up into beautiful blue eyes and forced a grin. Raoul de Chaney smiled back and gave her a quick squeeze.

"Don't be late tonight for the cabaret! I'll have a seat waiting for you."

"Of course, Raoul. I'll be there soon." Christine left the Dancer's Foyer without looking back and escaped to her dressing room, which was now truly hers to use. She washed off the sweat of the day's rehearsal in a mounted wash basin and signed deeply. Sitting down on the beautiful lounge provided for her, she stared at the wall and allowed her thoughts to buzz around her head.

Apparently the end of her lessons meant also an end to the Baron's interest and she had once again struggled to make ends meet, even with the rather substantial raise in position. De Chaney had been sure to be there to swoop in and take the position of her patron. It had only been a couple of weeks of courting, so Christine had yet to give herself to him, but she knew the pressure to do so would come soon and she dreaded that day.

She sighed heavily one more time before lifting herself from the cushions and preparing for a night of socializing with people she cared very little about.

The tragic, descending opening notes of Traviata fit the dark state of Erik's soul. Box five had turned from his hidden throne where he would watch his triumphs to his private torture chamber. There he sat, watching his protegé, his muse, sing alone. His heart told him that she was more than that, that she was the love of his life. The mask he wore - which a small interlude in Venice had rendered him a new one- reminded him otherwise: That he was not worthy of her. So he sat there, in box five; watching.

Waiting for Christine's entrance, Erik set his gaze upon the audience, unimpressed with what he saw; Aristocrats snubbing their noses at the bourgeoisie and the bourgeoisie mocking the stuffy aristocrats. Across the way, along the opposing rows of boxes, his eyes stopped on the one reserved for the de Chaneys. His stare turned deathly as he watched the arrogant young fop enter the box like he owned the entire Palaise.

Erik growled, but turned his gaze away. RIght onto a surprisingly familiar face. One box down from the Viscount sat a brilliantly gorgeous woman with pale blue eyes and a dark mane of curls dressed prettily around her head. It took a moment for Erik to identify the expensively dressed woman.

Colette!

That whore he had a business relationship with! What on earth was she doing here? He would have to find out. During intermission, he would investigate, but the curtain was now opening and Erik would die before missing Christine's entrance.

Erik's torment was compounded as Christine began her act one aria. "Sempre Libre" she sang; cherishing her freedom. This became a mockery as he watched the man who now lorded himself over Christine sit across the theatre in a box, nearly leaning out; making himself visible to the stage. This proud young peacock was revelling in the attention she was giving him. A few boxes down was his marionette who had never looked as stunning. And never looking so unlike Christine. It made Erik furious.

During the first intermission, Erik was out of his seat and stalking his prostitute. He had never seen her smile and for some reason, her happiness cut him like a knife. How dare she smile! How dare she be anything at all other than a fellow bottom-feeder stagnating in her own unhappiness? He snuck behind the wall of the box she was currently sitting in and Erik nearly struck out with his punjab lasso at the sight of her laughing and kissing her companion. Her John. But it was obvious this man was more than just a customer. This man was head over heels in love with Colette and as their kisses evolved into something more intimate, Erik knew she was likewise in love. With another growl, Erik returned to his box to keep from murdering them both.

Erik barely made it through the opera. He would have to visit Colette and put her in her place. Erik was angry and heartbroken and lonely and he knew just the thing to do to dull his pain.

That night, Erik visited the whorehouse. The receptionist politely told him that she was booked through tomorrow morning. Erik gave a dark smile and would purchase the twenty four hours following that. She would be his as soon as she returned, and he promised to take out his pain and desire and torment on her before she, too, was out of his grasp. He would not leave until his skin was stained with her tears.

The weeks wore on. Time ran dry. Traviatta opened and closed. Christine, of course, was offered contracts that if she would accept them would take her far from this place: Vienna. Milan. Rome. His bird would fly before he even knew it. Away from him.

Christine was soaring through her career as the newest Prima Donna of Paris, yet she felt nothing at all. She no longer felt that ecstasy while singing, knowing someone special was listening to her bear her heart for only him. She no longer yearned for the stage the way someone yearns for breath. There was no point anymore. Raoul's advances were becoming more insistent and the idea of leaving the Opera to be a pretty little Vicomtesse was becoming less and less vile to her.

"Perhaps we might persuade you, Mlle. Daaé, to grace us with a final gift before you depart for Milan," Andre offered as Christine sat in his office, having just informed him that she had accepted a contract with Teatro alla Scala to sing Violetta once more.

Raoul stood behind her, leaning against the doorframe with an annoyed look on his face. She didn't need to be doing more travelling, or more singing for that matter. It was a trifling hobby to him, and one that stood in the way of her true purpose; which of course was marrying him and having his children.

"Would you consider singing a recital; a farewell concert, as it were? After all, you came to wing within these very walls. It would be a fitting send off before we let you fly loose into the wide world." Andre offered, smiling a bit sadly at her. Truthfully, she had been wonderful for the company and she would be sorely missed.

Christine looked back at Raoul, noted his expression and turned back with a scrunched brow. She was silent for a minute, debating with herself. She knew she could never resist this stage, though, as much as she would try. So she nodded, smiling at Andre. "It would be an honor, Monsieur."

Raoul rolled his eyes, but remained silent; he would be patient with his inevitable bride.

Andre nearly shouted with delight. "Excellent! We will start the publicity right away!"

Erik had kept his distance from Christine, as promised to himself, but he still made it a habit to see and hear everything that went on in his Opera House. He had to. She deserved more than the life he could give her, and so he watched from afar. She was growing close to the Viscount. What a waste of talent and grace on a man who would be more suited for a simple wife content staying at home raising his children.

A Recital. That would be challenging for her without guidance. Still, she would get none from him. Truly, it was for her own good above anything else. Erik had to keep reminding himself that. He pressed his hand to the wall, a mere five feet away from his Christine, then disappeared into the darkness

The idea of a recital did much to spark some life back into the soprano. She began practicing her technique in earnest and spent hours over scores finding the perfect pieces to perform. Meg found her the perfect dress for the performance, which of course Raoul paid for. A week after the decision was made, Christine had sent a huge pile of music to the accompaniment - far too much to sing in one evening, but her excitement kept her from being able to choose which to cut.

Erik watched her every move and guided her, despite his better judgements. His actions were subtle. Carefully rearranging her pile of music to have a more favorable piece that would suit her better on the to or removing them completely. It was agonizing for him not to step in, reveal himself but he kept telling himself that this was for the best; for both of them. Still, he couldn't help but put his little touches on her work.

Three weeks passed and posters were glued up around the city: La Christine would be singing a farewell recital for one day only! Tickets sold out within hours.

The scenery of the upcoming opera was pushed aside and a single grand piano was brought onto the stage. It was the evening before the performance, and Christine was beginning her final run through. The songs she ultimately had chosen were perfect. The accompanist was excellent and familiar. The electric lights were changed and ready to illuminate the beautiful soprano.

But Christine sang robotically. Going through the pieces quickly, she ran through the concert and bid the theatre a good night as she all but fled the premises, leaving the small group of people confused and worried.

"Do you think she will come through with this? She has been inconsistent and unreliable as of late," Firmin whispered to Andre.

"Do not worry, Firmin. She has not failed us yet. And if she does, well, she'll be in Milan before ticket sales crash and married to the Viscount not long after that. He's an uncompromising man. He won't let her travel the world singing," He said with a touch of sadness in his voice.

"Yes, it will be a pity when we lose her. Such a promise for a wonderful career...only to be over far too soon."

The Opera Ghost listened to this from the rafters, his stomach churning and his heart tied in knots. The night before him would be a sleepless one.

The recital of La Christine was packed with aristocrats and bourgeois alike, all in their finest clothes and best behavior. Tonight, they shared in their grief that they would be losing a beloved star to the Italians. Nothing brought the French closer together than artistic usurping from Italy.

Christine's dress was the color and pattern of a preening peacock, making her porcelain skin even paler and her blue eyes to sparkle like sapphires. Her hair was artfully piled on top of her head and sprinkled with peacock feathers and diamonds. She looked every bit the Diva she was.

Aside from the worried frown on her face.

"Oh Christine, don't be scared! You'll knock their garters off!" Meg told her as they were preparing backstage.

"Meg!" Christine chidded, but appreciated the attempt to calm her nerves.

Knock their garters off, indeed, or so Erik hoped. The Opera Ghost was dressed in his finery as well and currently lingered in the shadows near his muse. He longed to comfort her, soothe her; help her find the center that she needed to find before walking out onstage. No, he could not. Or so he continued to tell himself. This was for the best...that narrative growing old and tired, even to him now.

Meg bid Christine a dancer's good luck, "Merde!", and zipped off to find her seat. Christine envied her friend's energy and wished she could have half of it to get her through this night.

The lights dimmed in the house and the audience hushed. The curtain rose and Christine walked onto the stage. Thunderous applause greeted her and she was forced to curtsy three times before the audience finally quieted.

The recital began lightly. Art songs, mainly; all intended to ease the singer into a comfortable place before moving into deeper, heavier territory with the arias that would come later. If Christine could see past the lights of the stage, she'd notice the Viscounte looking decidedly bored. The atmosphere was different than during an opera. With less spectacle and greater intimacy, such distractions that normally occupied an audience were unacceptable in this setting, leading to a bored patron.

If she truly looked hard enough, she might even see the shadow that lurked in box five, the figure nearly blending in with the inky darkness of the unlit box.

Christine's voice carried through the theatre like ringing bells, yet she sang for only one person. She stared straight into the shadows of box five as she sang, imagining she could see the glowing eyes of her teacher. She sang with all of her heart, willing for him to accept her unspoken apology through the words and music she offered.

The crowd ate up every moment of it and when the last floating notes of The Queen of the Night aria left her lips, the cacophony of applause was nearly deafening. Christine stood there, watching for any movement in the box, but saw none. She swallowed her hurt and turned back to the audience, curtsying deeply. For her last aria of the night, she was to reprise Margarite in The Jewel Song, but as the audience finally began to calm down, a desperate thought ran through her head.

Bravely, Christine raised a hand to her accompanist, halting the introduction of her next song. The entire theatre was so quiet, she'd be able to hear a pin drop in the balcony. In the silence, she looked out into the audience, then pointedly turned her head to box five. Without introduction, Christine opened her mouth and began to sing.

"Ah, leave me not to pine

Alone and desolate;"

She paused, listening to her voice echo through the hall.

"No fate seemed fair as mine,

No happiness so great!"

The frantic pianist finally caught on and began playing the accompaniment.

"And Nature, day by day,

Has sung in accents clear

This joyous roundelay,

He loves thee – he is here.

Fal, la, la, la, Fal, la, la, la."

Her voice had never sounded more pure. She poured her entire soul into her words as she looked up into the shadowed box. The song was from Pirates of Penzance, an english comedic farce that was more suited for laughter and joviality. Yet this one heartbreakingly beautiful duet was one of her favorites ever since one night in the underground lair when Erik tried to teach Christine English diction. It was one of the few times he had every actually sang with her, and she cherished the memory.

"He loves thee – he is here.

Fal, la, la, Fal, la!"

There was a pregnant pause. This was where the tenor was to come in. She waited on bated breath, hoping against all hope that he would pick up where she left off.

The accompanist paused, waiting, as the heavy silence grew.

Finally, the purest voice the opera house had ever heard cut through the air, caressing every listening ear.

"Ah, must I leave thee here

In endless night to dream,

Where joy is dark and drear,

And sorrow all supreme –

Where nature, day by day,

Will sing, in altered tone,

This weary roundelay,

"He loves thee – he is gone.

Fal, la, la, la, Fal, la, la, la.

He loves thee – he is gone."

Tears dripped down Christine's face as she began singing with the voice in perfect harmony.

"Fal, la, la, Fal, la….."

The audience was left speechless, unable to move lest someone break the magic spell cast about the room. Finally, tentatively, someone in the balcony began to applaud. The rush of clapping and yelling that followed was powerful enough to knock down walls, but not enough to draw Christine's gaze from box five.

Finally, after a heart-wrenchingly long moment, Christine saw a figure rise in box five. It stepped forward, the glow from the candlelight below him illuminating him faintly. It was the Opera Ghost. He lingered there, his catlike gaze locked on her before he turned, disappearing into the shadows.

The Viscount stood, applauding half heartedly. He looked shocked. What she had sung, how she had sung it, how she had been answered; there were so many questions that needed answering. He, too, rose, making his way out of the box where he was seated.

Christine denied the audience their encore and instead rushed to her dressing room, her blue skirts billowing behind her like a preening peacock. She fumbled with the door knob before pushing herself into the dark, empty room. She stood there, hearing only her breathing, completely alone.

"Teacher?" She looked around frantically. "Erik?" She screamed to the walls.

In the silence, she heard the lock click behind her. The room was dark and foreboding in this moment. She frantically crossed to a light switch, flipping it on.

As the dim lights of the room flickered to life, she would see that she was not alone. Erik was present with her, seeming to stand behind the ornate full length mirror that adorned one of the corners of her room.

"That was quite the performance tonight, Mlle. Daaé," he said, his voice hollow behind the glass. He was dressed elegantly; a tuxedo with a half cape, the red lining of the cape visible, providing a striking contrast with the black fabric and the stark whiteness of his mask.

Christine's heart pounded in her chest and she looked upon her teacher with longing and gratitude. "Oh, Erik," she whispered. "Please forgive me."

"Christine. I...It is I who should be asking forgiveness." He stammered, pressing his hand on the backside of the mirror. It would swing open, revealing a false door. One could only imagine how often he might have watched her from this vantage point. The thought made Christine blush.

"Come with me. The Viscount...your suitor...He will be here soon and I must speak with you...away from him," he urged, a faintly possessive growl to his tone.

Christine ran to the false door without hesitation and stepped into the darkness. The mirror swung closed right as the doorknob to the dressing room rattled violently. A moment later, the door was kicked open by Raoul who bounded in with fire in his eyes.

Christine watched Raoul look around and let out a deep growl that turned into a frustrated yell. Her mouth popped open as she watched the Viscount pick up a chair and throw it across the room before stalking out through the busted door, not bothering to close it.

She turned to Erik with a furrowed brow.

Erik, admittedly, had a self satisfied smirk on his face as he would motion for her to follow him, falling silent as they walked. When they were a safe distance away, he spoke.

"Your beloved has quite the way about him," he commented, an edge of...good natured teasing? Creeping into his voice.

Christine jerked back. "He is a patron, that is all," she said in irritation. "One that I would not need to have had some Baron not disappeared into thin air." The thought of Erik thinking that she loved Raoul made her more angry than anything else.

He would lead her to the gondola that he had taken her across the underground lake with once more, pausing there. He offered her his hand, lingering there as her hand met his. "Christine...I missed you. My reaction was foolish...and childish," he murmured, his cat like gaze meeting hers behind his mask.

Christine met his eyes fearlessly as she stepped onto the boat and sat. "I never meant to betray your trust. I am so sorry I ….attacked you like that. It was...inappropriate." The word was thick and unwilling on her lips. She scared her teacher away and for that, she would never forgive herself, but she didn't regret trying to kiss him.

He would step in, after her, guiding them through the cavern with an expert's touch. "You did no such thing. It was I who reacted so poorly...I reacted like a monster." He paused, fixing his gaze away from her before continuing.

"And now you know that a monster is truly what I am," he said gravely, referring to the glimpse of his face which she saw.

She stared at the black water, silent, as Erik pushed the boat through the lake.

When the boat docked on the other side, Christine accepted Erik's hand to help her out of the boat. With her feet on the gravel, she reached out impulsively to grab Erik's arm.

"You are not a monster, nor did you do anything wrong. I frightened you and I am sorry for it, but please do not blame yourself," Christine said gently. "You've done so many things for me. You've saved my life multiple times over." She stepped closer, looking up into his masked face and slowly lifted her hand. She moved hesitantly, allowing him time to deny her.

Erik stood there, frozen. His heart raced in his chest and he began to fight the urge to stop her from doing what she was going to do. Instead, he swallowed hard, allowing her to proceed.

When he didn't move, Christine raised her right hand to his uncovered face, gently caressing his smooth jaw.

Erik swallowed once more. He shut his eyes and gave her a small, subtle nod. A hand reached to touch her side, almost as if bracing himself.

She brought the other hand up to spread over the mask, cupping his jaw. When he did not move, she slipped her fingertips inside of the mask and gently began to raise it from his face, allowing him time to react.

What would be revealed was a face that looked as if it had been burnt badly; or perhaps born defected. There was simply too little skin for so much face. Muscles and tendons were nearly visible under the thin skin. The skin itself looked red and irritated and an open boil burned on his cheek.

It took Erik everything to not panic at that moment. His hands would trace over her sides, losing their grip a bit as he calmed himself. His eyes squeezed shut. He was sweating, waiting desperately for her screams.

What he found instead was a velvet warmth press against his lips.

Christine's first response was to freeze. A swell of pity rose in her throat but she swallowed it down, knowing it would be resented. He looked so sad, like he was confident of what her next move would be. It broke her heart. She did the only thing that came to her. She leaned in and gently kissed him.