Author's Note.

I've had a bit of a mix up about certain title chapters, as the one previous to this chapter suited my newest one the best. So hopefully everthing has been rectified.

K.S.

Love To Thee My Thoughts Are Turning

Erik:

I followed her, making certain she returned to her dormitory without incident. Only when I saw that she was safely tucked away with the other petite ballerinas did I

return to my home. Then, and only then, did I let myself give into the tears that had threatened me since she had begun her precious song.

She had remembered.

This sweet girl had not only remembered a lullaby sung to her nearly ten years before, but she searched out the whole of it and learned it, even to the playing of it. For me. No one had ever done such a thing for me before. I had first heard the song sung by the British contralto, who had retired nearly fifteen years before. She had been inordinately fond of the petite rats, and had told them thrilling stories of her native Wales, I too had listened, a child myself. My favorite stories were of the bards of ancient Cambria.

I often imagined that I had, in some past life, been one of those self-same bards. It was my favorite childhood game. The Opera was my playground, and I the minstrel boy, escaping the wrath of an evil king. I had told the stories to Christine, thrilling her with the same tales that I had found so enchanting. Somewhere, I had filched a copy of the Mabinogion, and I related some of those tales to her. Only the most tame, I assure you! The rape of Goewyn and the subsequent punishment of the king's nephews were too worldly for my little angel. No, she thrilled to the tale of Llew and the tale of Olwen, and all the brightness of the courting of Rhiannon. But it was my lullaby which truly captured her attention. How she knew that it meant so much to me, I'll never know, but she did!

Could it be? It seemed beyond belief. Could she possibly love me? Of course. She loved her Angel. But I'm no angel. No, it couldn't be that she would love me as Aida loved Radames, or any of the great loves from the operas. And rightly so. It isn't right! I'm nearly thirty, for Christ's sake. And I am her teacher. I touched the mask, reminding myself of what lay beneath. Reminding myself that I am a monster. As if I could really forget that. Although I came perilously close to doing just that when I was with her.

But, is it so out of the realm of thought? That there was someone, in this mad world, who could love me? I am a man like other men (A/N: I love that line from the 1925 film and have always wanted to use it.) Should I not have some happiness in my life? Should I always be denied what so many others have found? I walked slowly and reached my hand out to a tapestry, uncovering a mirror. I scrutinized my image. I saw a man, young still, tall and broad shouldered, in black trousers and white linen shirt, sans the suit coat, waistcoat and cravat of daywear. Perhaps a bit lean, but not sickly so. Yet my eyes were drawn, inexorably, to my face. They lingered on the mask; but I made a concerted effort to ignore it and focus on the half of my face that the mask did not conceal.

The skin there was smooth. The lips were firm and well-shaped, tilted up in a rather amused quirk. The left side of the nose was rather hawkish, but it was not ill-looking. Paired with the dark wing of the eyebrow, it gave a powerful and imposing aspect to the face. The eyes were somewhere in between blue and green and gray... changeable, like the sea. The eyelashes were thick and dark. Many of the petite rats would kill or maim to have lashes like that. The chin was stubborn, and often set. All in all- it would have been a handsome face- were it not for what lay beneath the mask. Under the mask.

That blank, white visage- smoothing the horrific flaws- hiding my glaring imperfections. Imperfections that had made my life before my rescue by Madame Giry- before I came to the sanctuary of the Opera- a seemingly endless hell. Devil's Child. What had I done to deserve that? What? I can remember, like a misty dream before the stark unreality of nightmare, my mother. I couldn't have been five years old when my mother, so beautiful, so cold, took gold from the hand of the Gypsy, and gave me no further thought. Her final and lasting cruelty. She had always been so faraway, like a princess locked in a tower, needing rescued. Now I can see that she was Pasiphae, birthing a monster. Not even my own mother could love me.

What presumption led me to even entertain the notion that Christine could? I'm a fool. She loves my voice, but not me. And for her sake, I must not betray to her that I love her. I wouldn't want to make her cry. Or worse, laugh. My heart can't bear that rejection. I lay on my bed, dry-eyed with misery. The music box began to play and I listened. It gave no comfort and I resisted the urge to hurl it across the room.

She doesn't love me.

Christine:

He doesn't love me.

Back in the dormitory I washed my scraped palms, pondering what the Angel could have meant in that whispered sign. All I could think was that he doesn't love me: not as I love him. Oh, what is wrong with me? Am I so undesirable? I-I know people see me as rather odd, and sometimes even a little ridiculous- but my Angel never seemed to think so. Maybe I was wrong. How could I even presume to think that he could love me, a foolish ballet girl, when there are so many others more worthy, so many Angels in heaven for him to love and to love him back!

I flatter myself when I daydream that he might even love me enough to forsake heaven and take the form of a man, If I am perfectly honest with myself, that is what I truly want. For him to be a man. A tall, beautiful man, with eyes like the sea, long musician's fingers... I'm being foolish now. But after all, why not? I can imagine leaning my head against a heart beating wildly in a body that would rival the statue of Apollo on the roof. Of gentle fingertips, calloused and nimble from playing both violin and piano, brushing my lips, tilting my chin up to meet... I'd best stop before my imagination runs away with me... again.

Many of the other ballerinas have taken lovers (Some have taken on more than one at a time! What a dreadful thought!); they giggled and whispered of their encounters. But Madame Giry was watchful as any duenna, and had I not had my Angel, I might have wished for a suitor as Meg did. All I want... All I've ever wanted is my Angel.

Does that make me wicked? Or a heretic? To want him to fall from grace simply so that I could have him? No! It cannot be wrong to love so.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall tell him. After the dress rehearsal for Hannibal. Surely he shall either love me or leave me forever. And if he leaves, there is nothing here for me. But- I don't think he will leave. His voice, choked with tears, for that is what made him so... strangely human there in the chapel. He did weep when I sang that song for him. Perhaps... Perhaps he loves me- just as much as I love him. And after all, shouldn't that be enough?

A/N: It's not going to be all moonlight and roses... I'll throw some starlight in as well, perhaps, and maybe some original verse once I've warmed to the subject again. Thanks to all reviewers, you really make my day.

Au revoir,

K.S.