You know, who needs Wikipedia or Encarta when I have Leben is Magie to correct me, huh? ;-) Anyway, you can call off the mini Christines and mini Eriks now… please… or I'll really have to get a baseball bat to fend them off.

Yay for backstory!

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Chapter 3

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He was anything but what he had told her he was – he was no angel, that was certain. Not in heart and certainly not in appearance. His name was Erik – he knew no surname for himself and desired none. A man like him didn't need two names to distinguish himself from others. According to his personal math, he had crossed the "milestone" of forty years only recently. The passage of years meant nothing to him. For the better part of those four decades, he had been awaiting death. Not that he hadn't come close enough to it at many occasions.

He escaped the convent where he had had a quite happy childhood and traveled around the known world. He was a survivor – he had to be. The disfiguration of his face, which had robbed him of so much many took for granted had also robbed him of any shred of feeling towards the human race, of which he now spoke with distaste. Had it not been for his deformity, he would have been an honored scholar kings would fight for. But he was a social outcast, to put it plainly… and he preferred it that way.

His face was his only flaw physical flaw – his form was tall and slender, but strong and not at all gangly as most tall men were. His hair was black and his eyes shone in the darkness, like a cat´s – they were bright yellow, but otherwise, quite normal. There was a strange grace to his movements, a dance-like grace, that made his every step and movement elegant. Combined with his voice, which was the vocal interpretation of what Heaven might be, there was no one in the world he couldn't enchant or enslave. This powerful hold was broken only by the sight of his face… and that rarely happened, because he was quicker than almost anyone who had ever tried to tear the mask he wore from his face.

Another thing distinguished him from others: he didn't believe in God. Or he attempted not to believe in Him. But then again, he often had monologues directed towards Him, and if God didn't exist, who was to blame for the error that was his face? He believed in God… but he hated God for ending his life before it even began. It was a blow He had delivered that was entirely unjustified and unfair, but who ever said God didn't make mistakes? As the years passed, Erik grew bitter. Even before, he had resented the nuns when they had told him that God had a higher plan with him. Erik saw none and found himself hating the nuns for their blind belief.

After fleeing the monastery, he quickly learned how to survive, how to get food, shelter and money… and, eventually, he had to learn how to kill in order to stay alive himself.

To balance out his hideousness, however, it seemed that God had given him every talent available to mankind, the ability to learn any and every skill and art in the world. Though France was still living in the past, the renaissance spreading from Italy couldn't be ignored in Erik's eyes and he found himself admiring the artists that broke free of the church's hold over them and showed the world what they truly felt. But music, his most beloved art, was still under the shadow of Christianity and all songs were meant for the Lord. But in his mind, different music played. He wrote it down whenever he could and brought it with him – the most precious of his belongings.

He was ever on the move. Only recently he had returned to Europe from the Middle East. He had seen the Holy Land, saw where thousands had died during the crusades. And for what purpose, he asked himself. For a time, he had remained in the Islamic lands. There, despite the fear they showed when he was near, they also showed respect when it came to his talents. A political assassin was in high demand, as it always was in countries where swords had higher value than words. But eventually, the need to return to his own country took over, the need to hear his native tongue. Journeying through the now rich cities of the south, he had seen enough wonders to last a lifetime… and now, he was home.

He had meant to leave Paris days ago, but the appearance of the girl changed everything. The only positive emotion he felt he was capable of was compassion and that was precisely what the very presence of this girl demanded. She wasn't a survivor, clearly. Mankind would crush her once she would enter the world. There was no place for the weak in the world of bloodshed in the name of faith. In a few years, she would surely be a wreck. And something tugged at him when he saw this. Her voice had attracted his attention, thanks to its purity. And innocence… one could almost believe…

But experience had taught him that wishful thinking only led to disappointment. His hopes weren't high – she wouldn't allow a stranger to help her, let alone one such as him. Whenever he passed through a village and someone saw him, they thought it was the Black Death riding to get them, because he always wore black clothes and a hooded cloak that covered the mask he wore to cover his twisted features.

The Dark Rider. The Black Knight. Death. Yes, fitting names for him.

But to Christine, he had to be an angel, because her little heart could only open up to a divine entity. Only then could he find out what was wrong with the child who sang without soul and prayed desperately each day. And then, perhaps, he could heal her and safely forget her…

After each conversation with her, however, whenever her eyes widened with near-ecstasy when she heard the voice of her angel from above, he wanted to leave less and less.

Two months passed and Christine began to look healthier than before. She wasn't so nauseatingly thin anymore, but her waist was still much too narrow. Her bony and pale face began filling in and, thanks to her "angel" and Marguerite's lectures about snapping back at Suzette when she felt like it, her entire form seemed to straighten up and once the third month died, she was almost floating each day. During her work, she was lost in her own world, counting the minutes before her chores would be done and she could go to church at the hour when no one would be there. No one except him.

Never did his voice cease to fascinate her. Never did she have the slightest doubts that she was speaking with a divine being. Who else could know her so well and be that kind to her? At times, she believed that there was actually a presence near her, a friend and guardian. He began teaching her monets and magnificats by modern French composers, such as Antoine Busnois. She practiced a bit during work, singing quietly to herself. She had been in the middle of "M'a vostre cueur" when someone said: "That's beautiful."

Christine jumped and dropped the broom she had been holding. She had been so absorbed in her own thoughts that she didn't even notice the Vicomte de Chagny enter the room she was sweeping. Clumsily, she curtsied and picked up the broom, muttering an apology. The Vicomte, however, was quicker and picked up the broom before she managed to grab it. She stood up awkwardly, looking at the broom handle instead of at him.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to frighten you." Raoul said softly, tilting his head a bit to get a better look at her face. He seemed to remember her, but at the same time, her face was foreign. Certainly he hadn't seen eyes so soulful before. Awkwardly, he handed her the broom and the girl took it with a shaking hand. "What's your name?"

"Christine, monsieur." She said hesitantly, glancing up briefly to see him studying her. She didn't really understand. Was he going to punish her?

"Christine," he repeated, his lips forming a small smile. "You indent be afraid of me. No punishment can be given when I am the guilty one. It is you who must forgive me. I simply heard you singing and you have a very pretty voice."

"Thank you, monsieur." Christine said uncertainly.

The Vicomte was uncertain what to say. On principle, he didn't indulge himself in chambermaids or maidservants in general, but this one… he didn't know why he found her different, but somehow, he was startled that he had never noticed her before. After all, they had no other blonde maid in the house. Impulsively, he turned on his heel and left without another word. The girl wasn't even pretty. In fact, she would have been thoroughly ordinary if not for that… glow she had. like the light that drew spirits from Purgatory, she seemed to draw others… but she was just a maidservant, nothing more.

Meanwhile, Christine was trembling in the room he had vacated. Like nearly all the maids that worked in the estate, she found the young Vicomte handsome. She found herself staring out of the window when he rode off on his white horse many times. But they had never spoken, never looked at each other… and she knew better than to think that he would like her anywhere else than in her fantasy. Nevertheless, she felt color rush into her cheeks when he entered the room. Right now, however, she was as pale as snow. The Vicomte… speaking to her… with kindness! Helping her, not punishing her for her clumsiness!

She was very lighthearted for the rest of the day. Even her angel seemed to notice the change in her. "Child, if the wind would blow, I feel you would soar without wings." he said to her, "What is the source of your joy?"

"I have all that I could ever want in the world when you are by my side, my angel." Christine breathed from the altar. When he spoke to her, even her infatuation vanished. "You are my friend and protector, and that is enough to make me thank the Lord each waking moment that he sent you to me."

There was a brief silence. Erik studied her face from the shadows. "You are… happy, then, Christine?" he asked quietly.

"You say it with such sadness, angel." Christine noted, her smile faltering for a moment.

"No… but once you are truly happy in this world, Christine, I must leave you forever." He would ruin her life by staying with her. Just once, he would create something beautiful by perfecting her soul… and then he would leave her, his triumph, for the entire world to see.

"No!" Christine cried, "You cannot leave me, angel, no… not in this world full of strangers… where I am nothing without your guidance… please…" her voice dropped rapidly, "I have a wish, one you might never grant me… I am happy now, happy because you are near. But I would be jubilant if I… if I could see you, as you surely see me. Angels appear to the worthy in human form, do they not? Please… I ask you… let me see you…."

The long silence that followed frightened her so completely that she almost went hysterical for a moment. as she began sobbing dryly, her castle of dreams breaking, the voice of her angel spoke to her, but with a coolness she had never heard in it before. It was like a swift winter wind, the sound. "Greed is a sin, child, and your greed is great. It is enough that you hear me."

Christine winced at the chill that passed through her, as if she had been slapped. "I… I'm sorry…" she whispered, "I just… I just wanted to know you are really there."

Silence. Then, a warmer tone, like the first sunray. "I am here, child. Calm yourself."

"Promise me you won't leave me, angel. Please promise me that."

In the shadows, Erik closed his eyes, his back pressed against the wall in agony. If he would promise her, he wouldn't be able to break the promise. Broken promises he couldn't stand. Breaking her heart he couldn't stand either. She had captured him in a trap… and, unwillingly, captured herself as well.

"I promise." The angel's voice whispered to Christine.