Despite opposing minds, music had always been the substance, the connection, which had bound their souls together, and such a base, yet pure union could not be denied. It was the reason why neither could resist the other's call, drawing close like a doomed moth to a unforgiving flame. And it was the reason why Christine now stood by Erik's side, observing his hands on the keys of the pianoforte and the contrasts between ridged edges and pale skin.

"I have always imagined that one day I would see you grace the stage to this," he spoke, gently transitioning his melody into Bellini's Casta Diva. "I tried for many months to... persuade those fools to allow another production of 'Norma'." His lips twitched into a grimace at the reminder of his failure. "I believed you ready for the role. Unfortunately, I was the only one who thought so. As I recall, those bumbling men deemed the opera too much of a risk for a secured run. The audiences would still behave with hostility towards it, they said." He scoffed. "It is as though they forgot that times have changed, and audiences along with it. Ha! As if they knew anything about music! They did not know true art, even if it were staring them in the face!" Taking his hands off the keys sharply, he stared up at Christine, his head slightly tilted to the side. "You do remember the words, do you not? Of course you do!"

His fingers returned to the keys and started to play from the beginning of the aria, and without a word of protest, Christine obeyed the yearnings of her heart. Two syllables had barely left her mouth when Erik slammed his hands down on the keys, producing a spitefully disjointed chord before he glared at her with an intensity that surprised even her. "You are not singing from your diaphragm!" he exclaimed. "Remember your breath support, Christine. This was a common occurrence when I first began teaching you, do you remember? I would have expected you to know better by now."

Dumbfounded, Christine looked down at her feet, instantly torn between arguing with him and walking away. Her teeth gritted together as she retorted, "I was breathing correctly."

"No, you were sounding short of breath," he chided almost dismissively. "Now, straighten up, feet apart, arms by your sides and—"

"Remember your breath support, Christine," she said, poorly mimicking his tone of voice as she raised her head stubbornly. The imitation earned her a glare and a short tempered nod, but it still gave her a small sense of satisfaction to know that she had irritated him. Her second attempt at the aria was as successful as the first, and soon it landed her in the familiar position of being silenced and chastised. Huffing at the sight of his frozen hands, she demanded to know what she had done wrong. "My breathing was adequate," she insisted, her patience thinning by the second. "I do not see what the problem is."

Initially ignoring her, Erik pinched the bridge of his masked nose and focused on suppressing his displeasure at her attitude. He did not understand this blatant disregard for her voice, for she had never been anything but diligent and devoted to her work in the past. Did she not see? Her voice was a gift. Unadulterated; pristine... and she was mistreating it—as if she actually wanted to abuse the only pure thing he had managed to give her.

"Where has this sudden anger come from?" he asked, trying to tear his mind away from his own thoughts.

"You think this is sudden?" she said in disbelief.

With a slow shake of his head, Erik lowered his hand to join the other which rested stiffly in his lap. "Then," he began slowly, "you are not denying that you are angry."

"Of course not!"

"So you are capable of emoting!" he growled, suddenly playing the aria's soft introduction with more far more dissonance than before. "Would you be so kind as to lend the piece some of it?"

"Oh!" she exclaimed, chagrined at his outburst. How dare he be the one to accuse her of not showing any discernible emotion when she was not the one who wore a damnable mask. "This is absolutely ridiculous. I see no point in continuing with this." Turning on her heel, she set herself down on the settee and frowned at Erik from the other side of the room.

An awkwardness hung about the air, but when they met each other's gaze, the harshness in their eyes faded and their regret over what had just transpired loomed over them as heavily as the shadows that lurked in every corner.

"Our lessons never used to be so aggravating," Erik whispered, breaking away to stare down at the instrument beneath his hands, his mind clouded with nostalgia.

Christine's mind also carried her away to a simpler time, a happier time, and she found herself longing to return to it. "So much has changed since then. Everything is different now."

"Yes," he agreed sadly, idly playing a cadenza in minor. "Yes, it is."

As she listened, tense fingers curled around the edge of the seat beneath her. "When?" she asked in a sudden and perhaps misguided attempt to speak with him civilly, wanting for that distance between them to close and disperse.

"When what?" Erik murmured, deliberately not looking at her but altering his melody to suit her pianissimo voice.

"When did you try to arrange the production of 'Norma' for me?"

"I believe it was very early on in your tutelage," he replied without delay.

Christine could feel her jaw loosen and slack, leaving her mouth gaping. "Surely not," she said, a timid smile appearing and then disappearing on her lips. "How could you possibly have believed that I was ready so soon? The very idea is baffling."

"On the contrary, I suspected your potential from the first moment I heard you sing," he defended with gusto to his words. "I suppose I may have been a little hasty to deem your voice ready at such an early stage, but I could not help myself."

"Why did you?" she asked quietly, her attention drawing to his hands as they slowed to a stop.

He hesitated, staring down at the keys, and under the mask a frown began to form. "I took too much pride in your abilities," he admitted, "and in my accomplishment."

"But it was a miracle that I was even noticed at my age," she started, leaning forward with a feverish quest for knowledge prickling at her skin. "I was merely a child to them, Erik, not quite nineteen. I am not surprised the managers were not pulled in by such a dubious gamble."

A low chuckle resonated around the room before he raised his eyes to her, amusement glinting in those black orbs. "Modesty becomes you well."

Christine said nothing but returned his gaze, silently sharing in his praise and his pride, but it was not long before a low gurgle sounded from her stomach. Embarrassed, she immediately wrapped her arms around her abdomen.

Studying her hunched over body as if it were a foreign entity and, being slow and unsure in what he was saying, Erik's diagnosis came forth in a string of simple words. "That noise... Is it... You... You are hungry."

Mortified that he had heard, Christine nervously shook her head and attempted to redirect the conversation elsewhere. "I am perfectly fine, Erik. There was no noise. I merely had a sudden cramp."

"No, no. You are hungry; I was right." He rose from his seat, his compositions now forgotten. "Look at you, Christine! If your stomach had not produced that ungodly sound, you would simply have wasted away! Forgive me for being so negligent. Follow me to the kitchen, if you would," he added with a flourish of fingers, beckoning her to walk with him. He did not miss the absolute look of bewilderment on her face as he passed her, however. "Is the concept so unbelievable?" he muttered to himself, striding ahead of her and disappearing through an open doorway.

Christine held her tongue, but she could not escape the peculiarity of the notion. A kitchen might have been the last thing she expected Erik to have in this gloomy excuse for a home, but she followed him anyway, glad of the chance to silence the beast in her belly.

Unsurprisingly, the room was like any other in the dreary underground dwelling. With décor befitting a funeral parlour, the bleak setting descended upon the poor girl without warning, making her shudder uncontrollably. Black wallpaper clung to the walls and sections had even peeled away to reveal the stone wall beneath it. In the middle of the room stood a rickety looking carved table along with two chairs and she coyly stepped towards them, her hands clasped timidly in front of her.

"Ah," she whispered, surveying her crude, yet humble surroundings.

From behind her, Erik emerged out of the darkness. He had watched her reaction from the shadows and though she did well to mask her outward disapproval, he appreciated her tact in not showering him in false compliments. Already aware of how primitive the room looked, he decided that her restrained reaction was entirely justified.

"Here," he said, placing something round and cold into the palm of her hand.

Wandering cautiously over to a candelabra, Christine held up the object to inspect it, the edges of her mouth curling into a smile when she saw that it was an apple—a delicious looking one at that. Her lips immediately curved over the juicy substance and she took no time at all in sinking her teeth into the skin. Sitting down on one of those dreadfully uncomfortable chairs, she continued to devour the piece of fruit and once she was finished, she neatly folded her hands in front of her, letting her gaze skim around the walls.

In the haze of quiet candlelight, Erik studied her—every movement, every colour, and was transfixed. The way her eyes would flicker rapidly from one corner to another as though she were be able to catch the shadows themselves, the flurry of curls that tumbled around her shoulders as she turned her head and her parted lips... Oh, he did not believe in Heaven's light, but he could not ignore the glowing radiance that she omitted simply by existing.

Now adjusted to the low light, she soon caught sight of Erik's dark figure at the other end of the table and she watched him carefully, his stillness a bizarre curiosity to her. Another shudder ran through her, this time at his ghostly countenance and, in the luminescence of flame and smoke, his bloodless mask stared back at her from behind clasped and stony hands.

"Thank you for the apple," she said, tearing her attention away from him.

"You are most welcome, but forgive me for the shortage of food," he replied, pulling himself away from his thoughts before he was lost in an eternal daydream. "I... do not entertain often and I did not have the foresight to plan ahead for you. Measly pieces of fruit will have to suffice for the moment, but I assure you I will not let you starve."

"It is quite all right," she reassured him gently.

"I hope your room is still satisfactory and that you find everything you need in there," he said. "However, if there is something you desire, please tell me and I will fetch it for you. I am entirely at your service..."

Christine was quite certain that he continued speaking to her in such a manner, rambling on about how he hoped she would be comfortable, but her mind was elsewhere. She had told herself not to think of Raoul while in Erik's presence, for she was liable to reveal what she ought to keep hidden, but while she could not forget Raoul, nor his kindness, she was suddenly struck by the way in which Erik was addressing her now. His tone—the softness to his voice was undeniable. It was the same softness she had always heard in Raoul's voice whenever he spoke to her.

Having noticed her vacant expression, Erik had stopped talking and was now trying to gain her attention by calling her name.

"Hmm?" she mumbled, sounding as if she were awakening from a dream.

"Forgive me. Do you wish to retire?" he asked.

Christine frowned at him, finding his statement disorienting. "Do not be silly. Why would I wish to retire in the middle of the afternoon?"

Gazing at her through thinly veiled amusement, Erik leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "Because it is not the middle of the afternoon, that is why. It is nightfall. You slept all day, woke in mid afternoon, confined yourself to your room for a few more hours and when you finally came out the sun had set."

"Nightfall?" He nodded and she eyed him suspiciously. "How can you be so certain of that when I have not seen a single clock, and I know that you do not carry a pocket watch in your waistcoat?"

He tapped one side of his masked nose with the very tip of his forefinger. "I have my ways."

Annoyed by his cryptic answer, Christine folded her arms tightly across her chest and glowered at him. "You are laughing at me."

A delighted grin spread across his mouth, which only grew once he noticed her expression. "Modesty may become you, Christine, but sulking certainly does not."

"Erik," she sighed, ignoring his comment. If you know what time of day it is by going up there—" here, she pointed towards the ceiling, "—then I wish to come too."

"What makes you think I go up there?" He, too, extended a finger towards the ceiling.

"Why all this secrecy? We are soon to be husband and wife," she said, her voice quivering, "and married couples should not have secrets between one another."

He could hear the insecurity she sought to hide but his heart thudded at the mere thought of being bound to her so soon. Not wishing to show his weakened state, however, he smirked arrogantly, tilting his chin up. "Ah, but as you indirectly pointed out, we are not married yet." Before she could reply, Erik spoke again, this time not trying to mask the sincerity in his tone. "Please refrain from arguing, Christine. It would only lead to unpleasantness and I would not want you damaging your vocal chords." He looked away, visibly slumping in his chair. "You have already been put through too much for one day."

Taken aback by his admission, she looked to him in wonderment and confusion, but found that she could not find the words with which to reply. Instead, she simply nodded and stood. "I will leave you for the night and retire. Goodnight, Erik."

Not waiting to hear his reply, she hurried out of the kitchen, across the fine rug and into her room, sealing the wooden frame firmly behind her. This was not an evening she wished to dwell on any further, and she prayed that her dreams would help her to escape for a little while.

o0o

Later that night—or was it morning now?—Christine awake from an uneasy sleep, and simply lay there for a moment, collecting her thoughts, before quickly sitting up and pressing her toes onto the icy surface of the floor. Her nightgown had managed to shield her from the cold dampness in the air, but as she yawned and rubbed her eyes, she was beginning to wonder why she had even left the warmth of her bed.

And then she remembered.

A voice. She had heard a voice. A raised voice. A taunting voice.

Stumbling sleepily to the door, she pressed her ear against the chipped wood, listening, waiting. Her brow furrowed as the voice continued to shout at... nothing? There was no one else that she could hear, no other voice shouting back. She winced at the thought of Erik having one of his episodes, roaming around like one possessed, his unholy eyes piercing the surroundings and searching for anything onto which he could release his anger. Even though this thought frightened her so, she knew she had to go to him.

Leaning her forehead against the door as her hand lingered on the handle, she wondered if she could really be strong enough for him. She knew she had to be strong for him, for both of them, but doubt only made her despise herself more.

Once Erik's voice had fallen into silence, her feet bravely carried her towards his chamber—a terrible place she had found herself in only once before, and she remembered it vividly. Torn curtains draped around the cobbled walls, a hand carved chest of drawers with a lantern on it, mountains of sheet music strewn across the entire space of the floor, a monstrous desk complete with more sheet music, letters and newspapers written in foreign languages, a full length mirror that was cracked hopelessly beyond repair and the spine tingling coffin which acted as the centre piece in that morbid collection.

Peeking around the door, Christine surveyed the poorly lit room and saw that Erik, unhinged and unmasked, was staring at his repulsive reflection in front of the fractured mirror. With one hand he held the top of the gilded frame and in the other he held a small bottle of some sort. In a trance, he stared manically at himself, and Christine pushed her body back until it was protected by the shadows, her palms flat out against the rough texture of the wall as she listened to him with growing worry.

Weakly shoving the bottle towards his cracked reflection, Erik growled and clutched at the worn frame. "What is stopping you?" he whispered, his strained tones piercing Christine's heart as her hand flew to her mouth to muffle a cry of distress.

With one swipe of his thumb, Erik had the lid of the vial wide open, the liquid inside tempting him with its glistening movements, and for a long moment he did not move. Christine had almost convinced herself that he would never move again until he tautly sprang to life, slowly raising the bottle to his face.

An instinct she could not explain drove her forward then, and she flew to his side. Yanking the vial out of his hand before he was able to bring it to his mouth, she hastily closed the lid and stormed over to the lantern. Her pulse was heavy in her ears as she stared into the clear and label free container, her fingers tightening around its body fiercely. "Erik," she began shakily, holding the bottle away from her body in disgust. "What is this?"

"A tonic, is all," he found himself saying to the heavenly voice as he glanced down at his now empty hands, watching how they curled around the air, searching for the thing which had been taken from them.

Christine shifted on the spot, switching her focus between the lantern and the bottle. "A tonic?" How desperately she wanted to believe that! But then, what was this fear what was stabbing at her heart? "You are ill?"

"Oh, yes, Christine, yes. Ill. Ill, is what Erik is. You must give him the tonic so he can cure himself! And then he can rest and he can sleep—yes, sleep is what he wants. Will you not help him?"

Madness. It was all she could think of to describe this moment, to describe his words, to describe him. "Tell me the truth," she demanded, spinning around, her gown twirling with her, to see him on his knees, staring at the floor. "What does this vial contain?"

The steadiness in his next words alarmed her greatly. "Poison, my dear... poison... Oh, will you not give it back to your poor Erik? You have shown him such kindness in the past."

"Poison," she spat, taking a haggard step towards his slumped figure. "You intend for this place to become your tomb? And would you leave me to rot here, too? Is this to become my tomb as well? I did not think you so cruel."

"Not to rot, Christine!" he cried, grimacing at the way her voice broke and tensed under her harsh tone. "I only wish to give you your freedom! When I am gone, you will be free! It is what you want, is it not?"

Horrified by his accusation, her pulse quickened and she felt her lungs compress, as if the weight of his words had been pressed against her chest. The realisation of her selfishness lingered at the bottom of her stomach. "Is that what you think? Do you truly believe that I would wish for your death?"

"You have every reason to hate me," he said, "even wish me dead. Why should I not believe such a thing?"

"Because it is false!" The confidence in her cry made Erik falter before turning to face her.

When his marred head twisted in her direction, Christine remained stoic, unmoved by the nature of his face. It did not frighten her now, but that did not make it any less unsettling. After she came to her senses, after she forced herself to look beyond his features, she thought she could see a gleaming streak running down the length of his face. The lonely path of a single tear. But as her scrutinising eyes continued to study him, Erik slowly became aware of the mask which lay at his feet and the cool air brushing against his skin. Ashamed, his hands rose to his face and Christine's heart broke all over again.

"A life is a precious thing," she told him, trying not to let the sight of his protective posture weaken the strength of her words. Even now, he hid himself from her, and she could not bear it. "Never think your life is worthless when you have given so much of it."

Through spread fingers, Erik hesitantly looked towards the mirror and saw a dozen watchful angels clothed in white, each one radiant and pure and kind. But when he turned behind him, there was only one angel. His angel—whose breath was scented with such sweetness that it perfumed her words, shielding him from the truths he did not want to hear.

"You... You do not wish me dead?" he asked, longing for her confectioned lies.

"No matter what you have done, I would never wish that," she answered truthfully, closing the distance between them. Dropping to her knees, she placed the vial on the floor next to his mask before her eyes lingered there, on the object which still held so much claim over him. "I would never wish that on anybody."

"You are too good to me," he said through shallow breaths, pulling her away from the mask.

"No," she replied gently. "I am not good to you, and you are not good to me. But, perhaps," she continued, staring at her lap, "we may be good for one another."

"I will never be good for anything," he muttered woefully, pressing his fingertips sharply into his face. "I do not know why you stay."

Though filled with ire and frustration, Christine found his inability to look at her directly more disheartening than his muffled words. "Will you not lower your hands?" she asked, her soft voice tugging at his fingers, tempting him, persuading him to submit to her.

A heavy silence fell upon them and a smile even graced her lips when those quivering hands dropped to his sides. His features twitched and a twisted pain shot through her soul as she raised her hand, a small gesture of kindness bereft of malice, and he flinched violently away from her. Like a beaten dog, he leaned back, his body stiff and wary, believing that any sudden movement could bring forth pain.

Startled and racked with guilt, Christine immediately lowered her hand, making sure to prolong the motion so that Erik was able to see what her true intentions had been. "Neither of us would surely admit to this," she began, "but we will both need each other to survive down here. We cannot leave the other alone. Not now. It would surely be the end of us."

Reaching forward slowly, she delicately slipped her hand into his—a light pressure, reassuring him of their needed commitment.

Erik sat limply before her, both grateful and astounded at the warmth her skin provided him. Her compassion exceeded his expectations and he realised how pitiful he must have looked to her. What else could he have done then but weep? To be held by her caring hand was almost too much for him to process, and yet his sobs only seemed to make the grip around his hand tighten.

But he did not dare return the gesture. He was not worthy enough to return the angel's touch.