Erik had done the unimaginable. Not only had he opened doors to memories he thought would never see the light of day again, but he had also allowed Christine the right to chip away at his tightly worn armour. She had burst open those floodgates, and at first he had felt as though he were drowning, submerged in a river of self-loathing as suppressed and twisted images snarled at him. But Christine had not let him drown; his darling girl had pulled him from his despair with her kind words and diligence. He would never allow her to know the extent of the horrors that had plagued his past, but the gift of understanding that she had offered him in return for his honesty was enough to make him weep.

Although these new truths had entered their lives, Erik had yet to explain to Christine the circumstances of how he had come to know Nadir Khan. But his evasive behaviour only served to goad her determination. The relationship between the two men—if one could call such a peculiar thing a 'relationship'—had fascinated her from the very beginning, but every attempt she made to gain information on the subject had resulted in failure. She feared she would hit a nerve one day if she pushed Erik too far with her questioning, but, having sensed there was more to their relationship than met the eye, she became utterly gleeful when she had been informed of Nadir's intentions of visiting them regularly. Erik, on the other hand, could not be have been more displeased. His unintelligible mutterings—and possible cursing as well, though Christine would never attest to this—promptly brought that conversation to a close. There was a time and a place for such conversations, such delving into the past, but now was the time, and nor was it the place. Peace would be brought to her upon learning the truth, but in the mean time, she would be patient and wait and attend to the delicate trust that had begun to grow between them again.

It was now the height of spring, and Christine's renewed visitations above ground had prompted her to become more relaxed in Erik's presence. On one afternoon, after they had returned from a walk, she contented herself by settling into the cushions on the divan; her arm was sprawled above her head and over the divan's arm like a cat's limb as she remembered the sun's warmth on her skin. Across from her sat Erik at the pianoforte. It was not usual for her to keep company with him whilst he devoted himself to his music, but more often these days she felt compelled to act boldly. A smile graced her lips as a familiar melody started to emerge from the entanglement of notes he had been playing. Mozart. Over time, she had come to realise that Erik would play Mozart whenever she was in the room with him. If his aim was to please her, then he would always succeed.

Lost in the beauty of music, Christine raised her arm and let her fingers tap out the scaling arpeggios in the air. She would never confess this to him, but there was a part of her that took cruel pleasure in the knowledge that she was the only person for whom he performed. At the same time, however, she knew the tinge of melancholy about this scene, for she would most likely be the only one to hear him play for the remainder of his days. The public would have fallen to their knees before him, in awe over his music, had they only placed the beauty of creation over the monstrosity that was his face.

And it was through music that Christine felt most content. It was that which breathed life into her, the substance that made her soul float higher than any mortal could ever dream to; it was her connection to heaven and to her dearly departed parents. It was a part of her, as tightly bound into the fabric of her own existence as her blood or flesh or organs.

Quietly rising to her feet, she walked over and stood beside the lid. She then leaned against it in a languid haze, observing his artistry and the ease in which he played. "When I was younger, before I came to France that is," she began, "I expressed an interest in learning how to play. We had a small piano in our home in Uppsala and I remember my father practicing in the afternoons, and then he would play his violin and I would sing and the whole house would be filled with music." She laughed, lowering her head in fond reminiscence. "After my mother died, we would often try to fill the gap she had left in our lives with music. She was very accomplished; I wish I could have known her better."

Erik listened intently, but said nothing, choosing to glance at her subtly from the mask's eye rims. Her voice was beautiful even as the pain she had suffered from her mother's death crept into her tone. "Did you ever learn?" he eventually asked, seeking to pull her from her unhappiness as she constantly did with him.

"No... well, yes," she corrected herself. "I have not touched a piano in years, but not from the lack of having one. I play very poorly, Erik. Very poorly indeed. Your ears would bleed upon hearing it." At this, he smiled, fully and without thought or hesitation, and Christine smiled back at him, delighted in his response. She decided to venture a little further. "Where did you learn to play? I do not recall you ever telling me."

"That is because I haven't," he said, his eyes never leaving the keys, but sensing that she would not desist in this subject, he finally added, "it is something that I picked up from a very young age."

Christine was grateful that he did not look up at that moment for he would have seen her gaping at him, her eyes wide with amazement and slight scepticism. "You mean you were not taught?" He nodded and she slouched her body further against the piano lid. "That is a remarkable accomplishment," she whispered.

"Do I detect doubt in your tone?"

"Of course! Oh, I... What I mean is... I just cannot believe it." She raised one eyebrow in thought. "You surely cannot have taught yourself all of your skills, no?" A minor chord hung in the air between them as he breathed deeply and stilled his hands against the keys. Her curiosity began to grow as quickly as his irritation. "What of your other skills? The sorcery, your architecture... where did you learn it all?"

Unwanted tension spread through his back and he very nearly gave into the temptation to flee from the room. "Christine, I would rather not..."

She did not heed the faint trace of warning in his words for she continued her ramblings as before. "Did you study for many years, or did it all come naturally? Oh, imagine such a thing! It is simply remarkable to think—"

"Cease your infernal questioning!" he snapped raising curled fingertips to his head. "I cannot stand another second of it!"

After he had quietened, the remnants of his outburst still clung to the air and Christine retreated from the piano. She squeezed her hands together and felt her pulse thrumming against her heated and prickled flesh. Even so, she did not back down. She had tasted his anger once more, but it was certainly not unprecedented, and she would not be made to cower before him now.

When he bowed his head, murmured an apology and asked if she would sing for him, she simply laughed in disbelief. "Is that what you wish, Erik? I do not think you deserve such a thing, just as I did not deserve your wrath."

His teeth gritted and she could sense he was biting down on certain unsavoury words, but the moment he met her challenging stare, he melted and succumbed to her will. He cried out his remorse yet again and Christine, who could not bear the weight of his constant apologies, silenced him with a soft bark of his name.

"Please, no more of this," she begged. "We must move on from our disputes. We must try to get along, and we have been trying, haven't we, Erik? We were getting along splendidly."

He heard the regret in her words and shuddered. "I shall try, Christine. I shall truly try to get better."

"And I shall try to be more sensitive in my questioning." The start of a smile teased the corner of her mouth.

The next hour was spent as a sort of penance, with both souls repenting through song the grief they had caused each other. As Christine's voice soared, the true accolades of Erik's tutelage took flight and his accompaniment rose to meld with her in a blend of intoxicating haze. They fled from the silence together, diving into aria after aria; they were desperate not to be driven from their shakily acquired equilibrium.

As consumed as she was from singing Il ne revient pas from Gounod's 'Faust', Christine could not hope to escape from Erik's hard stare. Partway through, he stood up, his playing slowly dwindling to a halt, and Christine froze, uncertain as to what he was thinking. When he moved around the piano, she unconsciously took a step back. Her voice faltered for a fraction of a second before she returned to the aria's tragic arms, wielding her song in such a way as a soldier might his pistol. It was her very own source of protection against Erik, but he was not deterred, merely entranced, just as she wanted him to be. Her cruel mind once again hissed at her, taking pleasure in his submission.

When he stopped in front of her, his curious eyes roaming her contorting face and mouth, she weaved her song around him like a comforting web. He gazed with longing and she did not discourage it, not even when he raised his fingers to her throat, the tips of which nearly touched as though in reverent prayer. His eyes closed at the rapture he felt and Christine allowed those fingertips to ghost gently over the front of her neck. He could feel the vibrations of her cords.

Bravely, Erik's hands began to slide around her jaw and he held her head as it began to droop backwards, carefully and oh-so lightly. He was able to see the slight beat of a pulse in her neck and he found it as bewitching as her voice itself. Christine softened her singing, her eyelids drooping to a half close whenever she felt the accidental brush of his breath on her skin. He was terribly close to her now, closer than he had ever been before. He loomed over her and there was something in his touch that felt dangerous; the electric tingling on a sinner's skin as he makes contact with a forbidden and scared relic.

Her song faded into a breathless gasp the moment Erik's mouth brushed against the centre of her throat, and the spell she had so boldly woven was broken. He pulled back instantly, staring at her in horror and raising his fingers towards his face. His lips still prickled at the memory of her trembling voice.

"Forgive me," he choked, tilting his head downwards for he could not bring himself to face the strange way in which she looked at him. He would have given anything to have been able to read the expression in those veiled eyes! "Earlier, you said that Erik did not deserve the gift of your song and you are right. He is not worthy of such a precious thing. When he heard you sing to him, he... he was lost in a moment of weakness. He had... I had to make amends, to show you that your voice is revered and will not be taken for granted."

Words failed her at his confession, for the devastatingly clear fact of the matter was that, with his heart full of her song, he had not kissed her, but her voice. The poor man had kissed her voice as a devotee would kiss a statue of a saint.

She raised her hand before she could stop herself, her fingertips almost aching to return the gesture, to lavish the same symbolic sentiment onto him, only to have her wrist grabbed as she brushed against the mask.

Like a cobra, he had stuck and was now inspecting his captive with hostility; the pain of betrayal in his expression was almost intolerable. "Please let me see your face," she said gently.

"No!" he snarled, releasing her wrist with a sharp twist of his hand. "Not this. Please, not this."

Her heart fell at his lingering insecurities, but she was not his enemy, and it was time that he knew this fact. If he could have but placed a little of his trust in her, then perhaps he would not continue to see her as a threat he had to protect himself from.

She bravely placed her forefinger under his bony chin and carefully lifted his head. She gave him her best attempt at a smile, although it came out rather half-heartedly. "You do not need to hide anymore."

"You do not know what I have been put through," he whispered and in that moment she knew it was true. She knew so very little about him, about his life before Paris, before the Opera House. It was then that a flicker of his past was revealed to Christine, not through words but through the power and grief stricken look in his eyes.

Stifling a shudder, she spoke to him as kindly as she was able. "You are right when you say that I do not know your past, but let me help you to see that you do not have to suffer like that ever again." She hesitated before placing her other hand on his tense shoulder. "May I?"

Erik was frozen in his place. He desperately wanted to believe her sweet words, full of promises and kindness. It was so very tempting for him to play make believe, to pretend that mere words would be enough to protect him. He knew better than that and yet the woman before him spoke no threats. Her tone was soft with her plea. How easy it would have been for her to snatch his mask away from him, but there she stood, asking his permission. His permission! Knowing that she was asking to see his face made his body shake. Was she delusional? Had he driven her mad?

But the idea of his beloved being unafraid and undeterred by his gruesome face was simply exhilarating. There were simply no words to describe such a feeling! If she turned from him now, he knew he would never recover. It would be too much for him to bear. But he also knew that he could never deny her, not when she had asked so sweetly.

But she would not be the one to do it.

Christine stepped back and watched as his hands rose over the mask's cheeks, hesitating only slightly before lifting the barrier from his face.

He truly was a ghastly sight.

His skin, though very thin, was a sickly grey. It stretched over high protruding bones but was slightly baggy just under his sunken eyes. The damaged skin ran over his entire face and even his chin and mouth had not escaped a little of the peculiar colouring. The mask had given an illusion of a full nose, a normal nose, but what was beneath barely resembled a nose at all. And his eyes were hollow like a corpse's. Without the mask, his power and vulnerability burned more intensely within those sockets.

Pity flooded Christine's senses, overriding all else, but her heart still swelled with gratitude. He had placed his trust in her, had exposed himself to her and she had not gaped and she had not fled.

Before she could think about what she was doing, Christine leaned forward and stroked his cheek. She drew back when she felt a shudder run through him, but her smile remained constant as he stared at her in wonder and confusion. No words were spoken, but a sense of mutual respect and overdue acceptance flowed between them, and suddenly the silence did not seem as terrible as it did before.