Spring had now arrived, and with it came a queer longing within Christine. She longed to plant her feet upon the Parisian streets for longer than a simple outing would allow and to immerse herself in the city's centre, to feel the freedom of a new season blowing in her hair. A fortnight before, she had been such a pitiful thing, suffering through her separation from her childhood sweetheart. Her pale features had echoed the lament of her heart and for many days she had drifted through the corridors with the solemness of a spectre doomed to wander the Opera Ghost's realm forever. But slowly, like the unfurling of a flower's first bloom, a rosiness had begun to colour her cheeks again, a fire was ignited in her eyes and the presence of spring had only encouraged a cheerful disposition to emerge.

On night night, Erik asked if she wished to sing. He had been longing to hear her voice again, to have it fill these gloomy halls, for he knew only in song was she truly happy. And though she appeared to be much less melancholy now, he was still hesitant to approach her lest she rebuke him.

Peering over her embroidery in diluted surprise, she smiled. "Yes, I would like that very much."

"Excellent!" he exclaimed at the sight of her beautiful face, his body taut in anticipation. "You need not stop your work; I shall await you in the music room."

After his departure, Christine returned to her embroidery, attempting to master the troublesome threading and finish her needlework before she fell into music's sweet embrace. It had been too long since she had lost herself in song. Biding her time, she knew not to rush this much longed for reunion, and paid close attention to slowing her threading of the needle through the cloth.

"Ouch!" she gasped suddenly, peering down at her finger to see a pool of dark blood gathering round a tiny puncture wound. She muttered to herself, casting the wretched needle aside, and glared at its treacherously sharp end.

Cleaning the small injury was a simple, albeit irksome procedure, but it was with great joy that she practically flew into the music room afterwards. As expected, Erik was already there, sitting on his piano stool, his shoulders hunched and his hands flitting across sheet music in fervent release as he composed. It was both strange and slightly wondrous to witness the magnitude of passion that he poured into every ounce of his music. Not wishing to disturb him, Christine tiptoed across to sit on the wooden chair that rested at the adjacent wall.

She watched from her spot, tilting her head in the hopes of obtaining a better view of his fingertips pressing and controlling the keys with such ease. In this endeavour, she leaned a little too far to the side and had to grab the edge of the seat for fear of tumbling to the ground. The old wood beneath her gave out a slow creak and Erik spun around, the dip pen still in his hand as he studied her somewhat bashful gaze. Coming to his senses, he scrambled to clear his workspace, piling his music and pen away in a nearby cabinet.

"Forgive me, I did not hear you come in," he mumbled, closing the cabinet doors and gesturing humbly towards the piano. "If you are ready, shall we begin?"

She sang her scales, trying her best to project but after several warm ups, and an apparently futile attempt on her part, Erik made it clear to her that she was not in voice. The remnants of a chord hung about the room as he removed his hands from the keys and placed them rather dejectedly in his lap. Disappointment hung in his every movement and Christine irrefutably found that she, too, shared in this.

Placing her hands on her hips, she closed her eyes at the pounding of her heart. Her failure to reconnect with the music was not entirely unexpected, but with displeasure resting on the faces of both student and tutor, this setback proved more haunting than first thought.

Unaware of her inward battle, Erik massaged the bridge of the mask's nose. His earlier excitement had been snuffed out like a candle's flame and the burnt wick that remained left a sour feeling in his soul. "I should not have expected so much from you," he confessed wearily. "You are severely out of practise and I am only to blame. I have neglected your voice as of late and I can only hope you will forgive me for my negligence. We can continue with the lesson if you want, but I will not push you."

At once, Christine shook her head, her grip on her hips tightening as one hand slid across her stomach. "I think not," she said quietly, looking up to see Erik turned away from her. Embarrassed and slightly hateful towards both of their reactions, Christine walked away without another sound.

o0o

"Erik," she spoke softly, rapping on the worn out wood of his chamber door. "You have been in there all afternoon, please come out." She always worried when he found it fit to lock himself in his room and play out the remainder of the day in dwelling solitude. How he could stand to bear it, she could not fathom. She knocked a little louder this time and again there was no answer.

Never one to give up when it came to Erik, her gaze abruptly dropped to the unassuming yet entirely inviting door handle. On countless occasion, she had been warned to never enter without his permission, but she could not see the harm one little look would bring. She argued then that if he was so resolved to being stubborn, ignoring her when she was in a worried state, then this little intrusion was only what he deserved. Her fingers greedily reached down to grab the handle and turned it. To her surprise, the door was unlocked and it opened with only the slightest of touches.

There was no line of light which poured out through the crack of the door and Christine steadied her nerves at the sight of the room eerily painted in darkness. Entering, she called out to him, once again receiving no answer. As she continued her walk into the shadows, she saw that there was a small but blurry glow coming from the desk—a candle which had not yet quite lost its flame. It did not take her long to find other candles before stealing the dying embers to create new ones. This was not a place to lose one's bearings and Christine heavily valued her sight.

As the light spread into the four corners of the room and cascaded up the walls, she grimaced when she saw that it did nothing to change the atmosphere. Everything was of a morbid black, lounging in their master's gloom, never to see sunlight—much like herself, she added morbidly.

Starting at one corner and making her way to the other, her fingers ran curiously over the coarse material of the cobbled walls, the occasional ripped satin curtain offering the only glimpse of softness on her path. Her eyes roamed the walls until they landed on something quite strange near the ceiling, but, being too short to see clearly, she could only make out a row of paper lining the wall. Quickly fetching a candle from his desk, Christine held it up as high as she could and was able to see that there was some sort of writing sprawled across the sheets. As she strained her eyes to read it, she discovered the melancholy lyrics of 'Dies Irae'.

A chill came over her and she lowered the candle to the ground, continuing her observations of the room from before. She stopped when her hand reached one particular satin drape, expecting to feel the scrape of cobble beneath it, but finding no such roughness. Instead, it was quite smooth and flat and Christine swiftly peeled back the drape only to come face to face with a door. Excited at this thrilling discovery, she jiggled the handle but froze when she heard a sound behind her that was undoubtedly the soft scrape of a shoe against stone. Biting her lower lip, she turned to find Erik's figure silhouetted in the doorway.

"What do you think you are doing in here?"

His voice tingled in her ear and though he did not sound angry, his tone warned her not to toy with him. Nervously, she took a step away from the hidden door. "I was worried about you," she whispered breathlessly.

"Oh, you were?" he asked condescendingly, walking towards her. "So you were not trying to open that?" He pointed a bony finger behind her and was amused at the subtle shake of her head. Behind the mask, he raised an eyebrow. "Really? It would not, therefore, interest you to know that I have the key to that door—" he produced an object from deep within his jacket pocket, "—right here?"

Christine stared at it inquisitively, perhaps for too long, before shaking her head politely. "No, Erik."

"Ah," he said in that tedious tone, "so you were worried about me."

"Of course I was worried. How could I not have been?" She looked up at him, cautiously edging her way closer. "Erik, you lock yourself in here for hours on end. How do you think I would react?"

He gave her a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders and fiddled with the key in his hands, quietly relishing in the warmth of the metal against his skin. "Perhaps you would rejoice in the fact that you do not have to share my company for a while."

"Why do you say such things?" she demanded, craning her neck to meet his troubled eyes. "I thought you were past thinking those types of thoughts."

"I am," he snapped.

"Then why—"

"I don't know!" he exclaimed, squeezing the small object into his palm until he was certain it had made an indent. Meeting her kind gaze, he felt his fingers begin to tremble. "Perhaps I cannot comprehend that the woman I love is residing with me, here, in my home, willingly..."

Just as Erik's voice had failed him, Christine soon found that she, too, was without a voice. But words would not have helped at that moment. Instead, a need to take him in her arms had started to overpower her inability to speak. If she could not comfort him with words then she would show him, and God help her for wanting to try.

Her arms unfurled, wary of the tension in his hands, but before she could even touch him, he took a sudden step back and something heavy was placed within her one of her open palms.

"See for yourself what I keep locked up in there."

Curling her fingers over the key, Christine looked at him for a second more, registering yearning and something akin to defeat in the hardness of his jaw, until she shook her head and stretched out her enclosed hand. "No," she said. "I do not want this."

Before she could say another word, Erik had raised his hands in a gentle, yet pleading gesture. "I insist," he whispered.

A small smile graced her lips as she cautiously thanked him and her mind raced through the hundreds of possible things that could be lurking on the other side of that door. Her hand shook slightly as she placed the key in the slot and as she had just begun to turn it a hideous shriek echoed through the halls, piercing her ears with its shrill tones. Startled, she stumbled backwards, staring in all directions for the source of that horrific sound.

Looking questionably at Erik, she hastily threw her hands up to cover her ears and yelled, "What is that?"

"It is the siren's call," he answered calmly, his head slowly tilting towards the open door, his body rigid and his eyes distant.

"And what does that mean?"

"Only one thing," he began steadily, his voice crawling beneath her skin as his lips parted in a grin. "We have company."

o0o

Scouring the darkness of his domain, Erik tread along the wet ground with cat-like stealth, stalking his unsuspecting prey, eager for the thrill of the chase, the exhilarating kill. As steadfast as the gallows, he stood and waited, the noose in his hands gently swaying in the air, tauntingly. It was close now; the smell of sweat that hung about the passageway was unmistakable.

In the distance shone a hazy light, a lantern, a flicker of a candle which could so easily be extinguished. His fingers were poised, his muscles aching to be stretched. A faint groan echoed through the passageway and anticipation fuelled Erik's every breath. It would seem that something had stumbled upon one of his minor traps, the poor thing. There it was, struggling on the ground like a little creature, clawing at its captivity, desperate for its freedom. But it did not cry out, nor did it attempt a futile escape. It merely sat there as though waiting for the very thing that had trapped it.

"You."

At the sound of the ghost's voice, Nadir Khan spun round, careful not to move his trapped leg. Erik felt his bloodlust fade to unadulterated anger as his twitching fingers hurried the noose out of sight.

"Ah, how nice of you to show yourself," Nadir muttered through bared teeth as he uncomfortably leant his stiff back up against the wall. "Now," he huffed, "would you be so kind as to free me from this confounded thing?"

"You idiotic man," Erik growled, the reflection of the flame alight in his furious eyes. "Why did you come here? You should never have returned."

Though he took pride in his patience, Nadir could feel it waning with each passing second. "And yet, here I am," he said in defeat.

"And that is your misfortune," Erik snapped. "Have your senses finally left you?"

"What are you talking about?" Nadir asked wearily, not wanting to play Erik's game, only wishing that he would free him.

"Do you truly have a death wish? I did not think your skull so thick as to fall into one of my traps," he explained as he gritted his teeth. "Especially not after your last visitation when you made it through unscathed... Ah," he scoffed, a slow smirk forming on his face, "I do apologise, I meant barely unscathed." As a tremor ran through Nadir's body at the memory of that night, a dark memory bled into Erik's mind. "You should not have come," he repeated, closing his eyes tightly before turning away from the heap of a man on the ground.

Staring after him in irritable disbelief, Nadir shook the chain which bound him. "Do you intend to simply leave me here?"

"I should have left you to rot years ago," he snarled in reply.

Nadir sighed, leaning his head back against the cold stone. "I have long since grown tired of your humour."

Peering over his cloaked shoulder, the brilliant white of the mask seemed to float in shadow as he replied, "You think I am jesting?"

Any feeling of mirth that Nadir may have held now drained from his body as quickly as the blood from his face. A quiet chill lay between the two men until Erik knelt down beside him, his hands working quickly to remove the small but painful trap.

With a sharp cry, Nadir was free. Rubbing his ankle slowly, he then struggled to his feet, bracing himself against the wall for support. Erik watched him for a moment longer, a grimace on his face as he turned and disappeared into the shadows. He did not get far before a short exclamation echoed behind him, sounding more surprised than distressed.

"Were you just going to walk away?" Nadir pressed.

"It would appear that way, yes," Erik replied without hesitation. "But," he continued, "I suppose that with that leg you will not go away, will you?"

"You suppose correctly," Nadir grunted, leaning down to pick up the lantern.

"Very well, then." Trudging off into the passageway, Erik heard the scuffle of his hobbling companion as he attempted to match his pace. "Do not think I am going to help you," he called over his shoulder.

Behind him, despite being irked and in pain, Nadir managed to shake his head in irritable disbelief. "I would never think to impose," he muttered dryly.

The remainder of the journey back was cast in a silence to which both men were more than eager to comply.

"Do come in," Erik snarled, waiting in the middle of the room as the man in question made his way slowly to the settee. "Oh, stop your limping! It will not require urgent medical attention," he moaned, pacing across the floor. "And now to the reason of your intrusion, Daroga."

"I see you still have not made any headway in hospitality," he huffed as he examined his leg. "I am here because of the welfare and protection of Christine Daaé."

"Protection against what, may I ask?" Erik asked pressingly. "Are you suggesting that I cannot protect her? Ha! What folly! I assure you she is quite safe here."

"Events in the past have me persuaded otherwise," the Persian mused. "I have no doubt though, as you have put it, that she is safe within these walls. What I am concerned about is whether or not you can protect her from yourself."

Stopping his pacing, Erik whirled around and glared at the man who had had the gall to make himself comfortable on his settee. "Meaning what exactly?"

Nadir returned his companion's hefty glare with a softer, yet concerned glint. "There is no delicate way of putting this. Erik, have you... hurt her?"

"Hurt her? Why do you ask this?"

"Erik, answer the question."

"How dare you accuse me of that!" he cried. "Do you think me so low and degrading as to try to..." he trailed off into a silence, not bringing himself to name such an unspeakable crime. As his irritation grew, his heart began to pound fervently, setting a clockwork rhythm for his dark thoughts. "I begrudge you for thinking so little of me. I know I am seen as nothing more than a monster, but—"

"You know that I do not see you in that way," Nadir interjected.

Erik sighed, suddenly feeling drained as the Persian's words filtered in through his mind, soothing his anger. "I could never do such a thing to her, Daroga, not as long as I live. If I did then I would never forgive myself."

Nadir lowered his head. "I had to ask, you understand. No one has seen her in weeks. I was merely concerned."

"Don't be," he said. "It is natural for one to think of something so horrid when Erik is involved."

"I did not mean to cause offense."

"Then why do you speak such atrocities? Is it so that you can justify your actions in taking her away from me? That is what you want to do, is it not? Take her away?" His voice shook with writhing anger. "Is that the motive behind your little visit? For if this is the case then I would strongly advise you to tread carefully. You are wallowing in deep, infested waters, my friend. I will not allow you to take her from me."

"You really have not changed, have you? You still take guilty delight in having what is not yours to have."

A melodious light-hearted, yet underlying dry laugh bounced off the corners of the room. "You speak in riddles, Daroga!"

"Stop it." Nadir's voice no longer held that trance of strange sincerity it previously did and was now cold as hopeless suspicion shrouded his judgement. "Do not play games with me; I did not come here to play games. You must tell me the truth, Erik. Are you holding Christine Daaé here against her will?"

Mockingly, Erik laughed again, his dulcet tones piercing the Persian's heavy heart. "How offended you have made me! You were there that night. She chose me. Me."

"I understand that, but—"

"No. No, you do not understand." His anger ebbed and in its place lay distant desperation, making each word that passed through his lips a pained pledge, a sacrament reaffirming his pitiful revere. He was but a poor slave, a hapless worshipper, who praised not a celestial being but a mortal. A woman. She had long since taken his heart and, without her, he would be nothing.

"She chose me," Erik whispered, "and in that moment I knew I would do anything for her, even let her go. But she stayed; out of pity or concern, I do not know, but she stayed. Never in my life had there been such peaceful bliss knowing that she was in the next room!" A smile formed on his thin lips. "I love her. I know my actions may not lead you to believe such a thing, but it is true. I know I cannot live without her. If she is not there, I would surely die... But, if you dare touch her—"

"I know," Nadir quickly said. "But you must allow me to speak with her. If you do not then I can only assume something has happened to her." When his shadowed companion said nothing in reply, he continued. "Where is she?"

Pulling himself out of his daze, Erik's posture relaxed until he slowly turned to the Persian, scoffing."I see your sleuthing skills have left you."

"What are you talking about now?"

"Have you not heard the quiet treading of feet?" he asked teasingly. Tilting his head towards the dullness of the nearest corridor, he called into it. "Christine, come out here."

Frowning, Nadir looked in the same direction just in time to see a slender frame in blue slowly emerge into the light. Her head was partially lowered but even his old eyes could see the panic on her face, her loose strands of hair not completely managing to hide her expression. Though her eyes were frantic, her body language appeared relatively calm—more coy than frightened.

The tension in his tired body faded as he watched the young woman's gaze fall onto Erik's silhouette. In the shadows, Nadir watched the two contrasting figures in fearful wonderment. The two souls seemed to regard one another with a thoughtful silence. After a long moment had passed, those youthful eyes flickered towards the intruder of their privacy, delayed recognition burning within them. Her mouth opened, an apology laden with second hand guilt on the tip of her tongue. But an apology for what? Eavesdropping? Or for his treatment that night?

"Yes, Christine!" Erik exclaimed with feigned enthusiasm. "Look who has decided to grace us with his company."

"Monsieur, why are you..." she started, frowning as she tried to understand the Persian's unexpected and bizarre arrival. "I don't understand."

Nadir's winced as he quickly rose to his feet, an indicator of much needed rest, as his muscles tensed. "Do you remember me, Mademoiselle Daaé?"

"Yes," he heard her say before he saw her glance to the third member of their party, as though aware of the effect of her words. "You were there that night."

After weeks of trying, Christine still could not comprehend how this peculiar man fitted into their tale. For months, he had merely been another face at the Opéra, walking among thespians and patrons as though he were one of them, slinking backstage and wherever else he liked. Never once did Christine question his presence, assuming that the man only wished to be left alone. But, he had known far more than she had ever expected and this man, this mysterious man whom she still knew nothing about, had helped Raoul that night, had taken him and shown him the way to Erik's home.

There were so many questions regarding his connection to Erik that she wished to be answered. "Why have you come back?"

"Yes, yes, she asks an important question," Erik hissed. "Why have you come back, Daroga?"

Christine blanched upon hearing the odd title, but did not pursue it. She waited for Erik to receive a reply but, when hearing none, gently probed, "You wished to speak with me, Monsieur?"

"Yes," Nadir said slowly, casting a side glance towards Erik. "If I am permitted to do so in private."

"You do what you please," he muttered, his shoulders sinking as he exhaled raggedly. "But I do not suppose we shall have any peace until you do." With his dark eyes, he captured Nadir's wary attention, small trembles running through him under their scrutiny. "Be quick about it." And with that he left.

Once alone, neither Nadir and Christine, who could barely pass for acquaintances in polite society, seemed to possess the courage to speak. A doubt lingered in their minds that Erik had not been true to his word, that he was still there, watching and listening unseen. Living under the oppressive memory of the Opera Ghost was almost as terrifying as the figure himself.

Deciding that nothing would come of this meeting if they allowed their fear to rule them, Christine approached Nadir, and only then did she notice the dark and glistening substance on his trouser leg. "Mon Dieu!" she cried, rushing over. "You are hurt!"

Nadir followed her frenzied stare and held up his hands passively, silencing her own wringing hands and nerves. "I have inspected it, Mademoiselle. I will be able to make my own way back without much hassle, but I will need to make this conversation brief so that I can attend to the wound properly."

Although his words calmed her to some extent, a pressing suspicion began to emerge in her mind until she found she could not stop herself from uttering it. "Did Erik do this to you?"

"Not directly," he explained quickly. "I was merely a victim of one of his traps."

"Another trap," she murmured, her mouth pulling into a grim line. "Your journeys below always seem to end in misfortune, Monsieur. I am sorry, truly I am."

"Do not concern yourself with me, Mademoiselle," he said, shyly beckoning her closer with his hand. He spoke quietly to her as she approached, barely above a whisper. "But what of you? Are you well? What is your state of health?"

"I am as well as I can be," she answered finally, matching his hushed tones.

"Hmm," Nadir grumbled, peering around him nervously and tensing whenever he saw the vigorous flicker of a candle. As he turned his attention back towards the young woman, he lingered on her hand, noticing something was not quite right. Pointing at it, he said, "Your finger, it appears reddened."

"Oh, yes," she said, glancing down. "I had a little accident earlier with my embroidery needle, is all. It is nothing to fret over, thank you, but... You do believe me, don't you? Erik had nothing to do with this."

Nadir searched her face for any sign that she may have been lying, but, having found none, he nodded. "I apologise for insinuating, Mademoiselle, but I had to ask." Another look over his shoulder. "I have spoken with your fiancé. Weeks passed and he received no word. He was driving himself mad at the thought of you injured or... Mademoiselle, I am here for the Vicomte. If you are being held here unwillingly, if Erik has hurt you, I will return you to your fiancé at a moment's notice."

As Christine took in what he was saying, what he was offering her, she felt a sharp tugging at her heart that silenced all thoughts but one heard. "Did Raoul not receive my letter?"

"Yes, he did," he replied, studying her confused expression with the greatest bemusement. "The letter was true to your wishes then?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Why? Was it not to be believed?"

"Mademoiselle Daaé," Nadir began, lowering his head so that he could remain at eye level with her. There was something about the way he looked at her that made Christine highly uncomfortable. It was as though he were assessing her, diagnosing her with whatever ailment the world thought she had. Was she now to be labelled a madwoman for choosing to stay with a madman? "Are you saying that you do not wish to return above ground?"

A sad smile graced her lips, a swirl of lost memories drowning in her misty eyes. "I have nothing to consider. I have chosen."

Nadir paused, once again watching the corners of the room. "You do not want me to take you with me?"

She shook her head. "He needs me, and I cannot leave him."

"Then may Allah smile down on you, my dear lady."

Not long afterwards, Nadir returned to the surface, leaving Erik's home in complete silence once more. Erik's home... it was as much Erik's as it was Christine's, and yet she still could not consider this damp and dreary place her home. She searched for her living companion and soon found him inside his bedchamber.

Her eyes widened as she looked beyond and saw that the hidden door of her own discovery was now open. With all the rigidity of a statue, Erik stood, stoically staring at it and at her from afar. Christine stepped slowly across the threshold, making her way to him.

"You wished to know," he said flatly as she reached his side.

She gave him one last wary look before turning in the direction of the unlocked door and seeing only one object within. Kneeling down beside the object, Christine titled her head to get a better look at it. It was a rather small, rectangular, wooden box with engravings carved into its surface. She ran her fingers over the marked wood, endeared by its craftsmanship. Trailing her hand down the front of the box, she found a key already slotted into its lock. With a loud click, the latch was free and the lid was opened.

Inside lay various newspaper clippings, all of which were recent and all of which had a connection to her. She slouched to the floor as she inquisitively roamed the articles. 'La Daaé Triumphs', one headline read, 'New Soprano Takes Stage', said another. While searching for other such clippings, she found more items of sentimental value; a dozen or so shrivelled rose petals, several pieces of music bearing Erik's signature and an earring she had worn—and thought lost—during her debut.

"You kept all of these?" she asked in disbelief as her eyes fell upon more articles from her past successes.

A sickening pain churned inside Erik and he tried to convince himself it was merely the remnants of his illness which had occurred again not days before, but it was of no use. His heart felt as though it were being twisted, squeezed under the delicate hand of his beloved. By opening the door, he had let her is what she had wanted; To know him, to know his guilt and his pride in her, and to know the shameless longing that coursed through him every time she took a simple breath.

"How could I not?" he whispered.