Demone

Disclaimer – I own nothing to do with the original story or its characters. Or any of the other individuals or works referenced as part of this fic.

A/N – Well I took a short trip to the south of France to visit the parent folks, and the atmosphere and the general relaxing time gave me the drive to write some more. I'm really really sorry this is taking so long. I supposed I'm moving in a quality over quantity direction (hopefully). Anyway on with the story, reviews make you awesome ect ect

Meg Giry had been waiting impatiently for her mother to return from her latest meeting with the rather unusual Monsieur Mifroid. She knew exactly what was going on of course; she and her mother told each other everything. She too did not believe the speculation and the gossip that was permeating the opera house. It certainly wasn't a murder suicide like the police were insinuating and she knew that their plans to drain the lake they had found below the cellars would only be wasting time. She hadn't been able to explain how she knew this, perhaps it had been something in his voice or something about the way she looked at him. But upon that stage she had witnessed a connection that she knew she could never comprehend. She fought back tears at the thought, her only true friend, her sister was gone. She had not even been able to say goodbye. The knock on door to their rooms startled her and at first she thought that her mother had returned only to chastise herself at her stupidity. "Mother wouldn't knock on her own door, silly"

She undid the latch and soon came face to face with the Vicomte de Chagny.

"Oh, Monsieur. I didn't think you'd still be here at such a late hour."

"I had to stay with the investigation, in case they discovered something." The viscount replied sadly. "Tell me; is your mother at home?"

"She had to go out, I'm afraid." She said "Perhaps you should come back in the morning."

"I just can't help feeling that this is all my fault." Raoul cried, ignoring her suggestion and swanning past her into her mother's rooms and throwing himself clumsily on the sofa. "If I had just listened to her and arranged for us to run away while we had the change then maybe none of this would have happened. I should not have forced her to perform in that damned opera."

"That Damned Opera, has been sold out for weeks." Meg protested picking up the newspaper that contained the review of that fateful night and dropping it with a light thud on the coffee table. "Paul Lhérie turned down a contract with La Scala in order to replace Piangi as Don Juan. They're calling it the most important work since Rigoletto and we didn't even finish performing it."

"You can't be serious. They can't possibly continue running that thing, this whole place is a crime scene, they don't even have a female lead."

"Well, the managers hardly care about showing respect for the dead when there's money involved."

"Don't say that!" he cried suddenly "We don't know for sure and as long as there is the slightest chance that she is alive I will not lose hope."

"I was talking about Senior Piangi." Meg clarified, feeling her eye twitch a little with irritation. It was a problem that had begun with the viscount's arrival at the opera house all those months ago and she wondered if the two were connected.

"I only wished for us to be happy, how did I get it all so horribly wrong?" said the viscount dejectedly.

"Happy? This is Christine we're talking about, I haven't seen her happy since..." 'Since she told me about her angel of music' her mind piped up but she ignored it "Well, since her father was alive." Raoul's eyes darkened, as though he was reliving a painful memory.

"Ah yes," he muttered "The famous and saintly Gustaave Daae. Did you ever notice, Meg, that when we were out together he was all she wanted to talk about?"

"The two of you share a memory of him, one that isn't tainted by tragedy. Can you really blame her for wanting to remember her father?"

"Of course not, but this – this fixation of hers, it isn't healthy. And that man, that thing was able to manipulate her because of it. It was almost as though she thought they were one and the same." Raoul said almost bitterly but the theory didn't sit right with her. She had been aware of Christine's growing depression since that fateful night although she had hidden it well from the rest of the corps de ballet, and later on from Raoul himself. But she and her mother had not been so easily fooled. She had felt terribly powerless during that dark time, her friend had merely said "I was mistaken, there was no angel" and refused to speak of it again, and her mother had not been able to tell her what she knew for fear that she would go down below and seek out the strange man who lived there. No, she could not have believed that that man was a link to her father at that point. Instead she had been disillusioned and lost, as though she had been forced to grieve all over again.

"Forgive monsieur, but that doesn't make any sense." Meg said incredulously.

"Nothing makes sense any more. How could he have taken her so easily, there were dozens of people backstage, how could no one have seen him? How could she have gone with him without even putting up a fight?"

The ballerina sighed "I suppose we won't know until we find her. But the way I see it, she must have suspected that something terrible would happen that night so she went with him quietly to try and avoid it. If she hadn't, who knows how many more lives would have been lost."

"She said she was frightened of what might happen. But I would have handled it, surely she would have known that." There was that bitterness again and Meg suspected that he felt rather angry that his fiancé had had so little faith in him. Was he really blaming her? She was aware that men weren't the brightest of creatures but this was ridiculous. "She can't have been thinking clearly. Were you and your mother aware that she'd stopped taking her medicine?"

" Yes."

"Well damn it, girl, why didn't you do something about it?"

"Mother didn't think keeping her sedated was the best way to deal with things."

"It was imperative that she didn't become upset. It was better for her to believe that it was all a dream. The truth would have only frightened her. God only knows what that thing did to her down there, I thought it was for the best if she just tried to forget about it."

"She's not a child anymore." Meg cried, "That's one thing you don't seem to have realised. She's had to fend for herself for a long time now; she's not the girl you knew anymore."

He stood in the doorway feeling as though he was about to have a panic attack as Christine began to set the table. He hadn't had one for a long time but he knew that if he didn't calm down soon he would have trouble breathing. How could he have said something like that when he had vowed not to frighten her away again? It must have been the lingering effects of the morphine that had loosened his tongue so, and now he had revealed what an irrationally jealous bastard he really way. She had politely changed the subject and left him burning with shame.

"I almost forgot to tell you. The priest was here again." He heard her say; it took a moment or two for the words to register. What on earth was wrong with him today? It was then that he noticed the teapot by the sink with two cups beside it.

"Damn him. He should have known better than to come back." He growled, making her tremble slightly.

"I-I'm sorry, but I couldn't exactly send him away, he'd already seen me." She stammered, it hurt to see how terrified she was but the heat in his blood stream was still present and he didn't know how to stop himself.

"Of course you couldn't send him away, not when such a golden opportunity just turns up on your doorstep. He might have been thinking about reporting me to the authorities but he definitely will after hearing your tragic story. Tell, what time are the police expected to arrive? Is this how you plan to end me, Christine, is it?" he was shouting now and she flinched away, but he quickly grabbed her by the shoulders. "Were you going lead me away from that damned opera house before you sent for your viscount? Were you going to raise my hopes only to destroy them?"

"No!"

"Why, Christine? Why would you betray me!" he was hyperventilating now, he felt as though he was about to pass out as she swiftly released her from his grasp and turned away, gripping the sides of the sink feeling as though he might throw up or collapse at any moment.

There was a long silence, the only sound were Erik's gasps for air and the soft sound of rain hitting the window pane. For a horrible moment he though she had left through the back door when he had let her go. It struck him how irrational he was being. Why would she go to the trouble of asking the priest for help when she could have left at any time? Why would she even tell him the man had been there if she was planning something? He felt her delicate hand on his back and he could have sworn that he felt the warmth of it through the thick cotton of his shirtsleeves.

"Erik? Are you all right?" why she sounded so concerned was beyond him. He certainly wouldn't have shown any sympathy for someone who had just screamed in his face for no reason, and yet she had taken his hand and lead him to his chair. "Erik, I'm sorry I let him in." She said kneeling beside him as he forced himself to breath regularly again. "I admit he was concerned about me but I convinced him that everything was fine, he seemed more interested in you to be honest."

"Fine? You call this fine?" he almost laughed at how absurd that sounded.

"It's better than before." She said simply, taking him by surprise once more, and he noticed that she had not let go of his hand. Like the rest of her it seemed too thin, the knuckles protruding a little too far to be considered healthy but it was still warm to the touch and gentler than anything he'd felt before. Could it be that she was actually wanted to be here? It made so little sense that he wasn't quite able to accept it.

"I'm sorry I shouted. That man just brought back a lot of things I would prefer to remain forgotten. Did I hurt you?"

"No, but next time make those kinds of accusations I'd appreciate it if you'd let me say my piece." She replied, it amazed him that she was standing up to him in her own calm manner. Before she could only stare at him in fright but perhaps the shock of his true identity had worn off and she was once again trying to converse with him the way they used to. Christine was never one to be overly dramatic or outgoing; it was one of the things he loved about her. And during her time with the corps de ballet she had always been the quiet one at the back. He knew she hated confrontations as they were the only times when she would act rashly, and they were mostly his own fault.

"I'm sorry. I honestly don't know what's wrong with me today." He did know, but he'd be damned if he confessed to it, she gave him a concerned look and for a moment it seemed as though she was about to question him but she thought better of it.

"Anyway, he said he would return in the morning. But I can send him away if you'd prefer." She told him, getting up from the cold flagstones to serve their meal, could they ever share a meal together without incident, he wondered.

"No, he's not the sot to give up easily. I might as well get it over with." He grumbled. They ate in silence for a while; she had made them a thick soup of ham and lentils. It was simple but delicious enough to spark his appetite, his attack had left him drained and while was not able to eat much he instantly felt better. "No doubt he's already told you about our unfortunate association." He said finally once he saw that she had eaten a sufficient amount.

"Only that he knew your family." She replied, "It's really none of my business, and you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."

"I don't remember much about that time; perhaps he can explain a few things." He began "All I remember is a mother who could not even look at me and a grandfather who left me in the care of that damned priest." Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, perhaps from his confession or perhaps they were left over from his earlier outburst.

"Do you know, he was the one who first introduced me to music? He studied for a time before he received his great 'spiritual calling', as if anything could be more important than music!" He sneered sarcastically. His disdain for God unsettled her, as though he truly was one of the fallen. "Of course I was enraptured by it, I would have studied it all day if he'd let me. I learned to sing. But that wasn't enough for him. He wanted to use my voice to serve God. He wanted to share it with the world. So I made my debut during midnight Mass, in front of his entire congregation, I was seven. For one perfect moment, I could see their wonder, and in that moment I almost believed in God. But it wasn't enough. The crowd wanted to know where this voice was coming from, they wanted to see the angel and one of the boys in the choir ripped the mask from my face." She gasped at the thought, picturing Erik as a small child being subjected to such a humiliation and once again felt a terrible wave of regret at snatching his mask away that terrible morning. "You can probably guess what happened afterwards. I thought they were going to tear me apart. I was beaten to a bloody mess in God's own house. As I recovered I vowed to reject God and never to sing for Him again."

His eyes had darkened as he told his story, as though the memory was still as fresh as it had been the day it had happened. That event alone had been tragic but Christine had more than enough reason to believe that it was not the last incident of its kind. Watching him as he sat across from her retelling such a painful memory made him seem more real than he ever had been, more human, and she was once again reminded of how drawn he looked and wondering about the state of his health. If he truly was ill then he probably wouldn't admit it. He seemed to be preoccupied with maintaining the facade he had created, whether it was an angel or a ghost, neither of them was supposed to be fallible. She refused to think of what would happen if he too suddenly disappeared from her life, she was crying now, as though she couldn't hold her tears back any longer.

"How could they do such a thing? How could they do that to a child?" she whispered "How could I?"

"Because people want to know the truth, it's in our nature, even if the truth is painful." He replied simply.

"I've never truly apologised for hurting you like that. I had no right to do what I did. I was frightened and angry and I just needed to know who you were."

"You don't need to apologise, Christine. It was I who deceived you. I abused your trust."

"Why did you do it? Why did you lie?" he was silent for a long time before he finally answered.

"Because I wanted to mean something to you, I wanted you to love me. I was terrified that you'd grow to hate me if you knew the truth."

"I've never hated you, Erik"

The conversation ended abruptly as he left through the back door, saying something about needing to bring César in from the field and that there should be enough hot water if she wished to bathe. She wondered if she had said something wrong or whether he just needed some time alone. However the state of her hair made the idea of a proper bath seem quite wonderful and she was secretly eager to take advantage of the modern plumbing. As she stepped into the bathroom she noticed Erik's razor and shaving brush by the sink. She hadn't really taken note of them before; her anxieties were understandably focused on more important things. But seeing these mundane objects along with the two toothbrushes, she assumed the newer one was meant for her, and the jar of baking soda, brought an unusual sense of intimacy to their new living arrangement coupled with the nostalgic feeling of when it was her and her father. But Erik was not her father and as ignorant as she was about such things she knew he probably had more than violin concertos and fairytales on his mind. How could he expect such things when he couldn't even show her his face or even his hair? The sleek black of the wig he wore might have fooled her in the darkness of the cavern but in the daylight it looked unnatural, even a little comical, although it would be rude to tell him so.

The water from the hot tap was perfect in comparison to the jugs of freezing water she was used to washing with and she smiled at the oils and bath salts he had bought for her, as though he had thought of every detail of their life together. It unnerved he that she was beginning to think of them to. Hadn't he always been in her thoughts, even when Raoul had done his very best to get her to forget about her 'traumatic experience'. She had tried to think of what he life would be like once she married Raoul. In terms of material comforts she never want for anything, and she would never be without affection. But she would also have duties and responsibilities, she would always have to behave in a certain way, she would have to live with the polite but constant disapproval of her in laws and perhaps the whole of fashionable society and she in turn would have to be the perfect hostess to people she thoroughly disliked. The more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea, and the more she realised that she really didn't know Raoul at all, and he didn't know her. They had both changed so much since they last met. It had been wonderful to reminisce but in the end that was all they had. She had no interest in his business ventures or his love of hunting, and he probably found her terribly unladylike when she voiced her opinions on the situation in Ireland or Transvaal.

On the other hand living here with Erik provided an entirely different set of benefits and problems. Again she had no doubt that he would be able to provide for, although how he did so was a mystery to her. She would have the private and secluded life that she secretly craved and the freedom to study music and anything else he wished to teach her to her heart's content. How eager she was to access the depths of his knowledge. Like her father, Erik had always encouraged her to be well informed although as a child she hadn't always been quite so willing. But when he had disappeared all those long months ago she had truly missed the brilliance of his teaching that she had once taken for granted.

However there was the growing issue of his temper, that was both unpredictable and terrifying and although he had never raised his hand to her like some men did to their wives, she didn't exactly feel safe in his presence. The passion that he expressed at times, unsettled her, as though he might consume her entirely and she would never be able to escape from it. There was his face, which as much as she despised herself for doing so, still caused her to shudder with revulsion at the memory. If he would only put her fears to rest and allow her to get used to the deformity, perhaps it would not bother her so. And what of his past crimes, she did not know what he had done in his past exactly, but his reluctance to tell her set alarm bells ringing through her conscience. Could she live with the constant anxiety that they could be caught at any moment and separated forever, and what if her suspicions about him having some sort of illness were true? Could she truly give herself to someone and allow herself to love again only to have him leave her in the exact same way that her father had done. She could not go through with that again.

Realising that the water was beginning to grow cold she quickly washed her hair before drying herself off on one of the towels she'd found hanging on the back of the bathroom door and dressing in her nightgown from the evening before. Her room was freezing compared to the warmth of the kitchen and pulling on her dressing gown she decided to go downstairs for a while, at least until her hair dried. She quickly dragged a comb through her tangled curls, wondering briefly if Erik had returned but the sound of the piano downstairs gave her an answer. She couldn't help smiling at the sound, whatever her reservations about this strange man were she would always be completely at the mercy of his music.

She didn't hate him. He knew it was pathetic but that was closest thing to affection he had ever received from a woman, that and the hand holding. He had felt disappointed when she had let him go and her hand had left his. He had wanted to reach across the table and greedily snatch it back. He couldn't do that sort of thing anymore, it had been wrong of him to touch her before. In those moments of weakness he had taken advantage of the effect his music had on her and used it to steal a few precious caresses.

He loathed himself for what he had been planning that night he had taken her below the opera house. He could lie to himself and say that it had been a moment of pathetic desperation stemming from the jealousy he had felt at seeing the boy in her dressing room. But in truth he had been planning to take her down there for months, lovingly filling his lair with candles and rose petals to dazzle her with and building a bed for them out of the temple shell from Boito's Nerone and Dido's throne from Les Troyens. When she had fainted the gravity of his crime had struck him. How could a demon such as him defile an angel, not a false one like he'd claimed to be but a living breathing angel would could redeem him or destroy him with one word. He had burned the monstrous thing after she had left, as it had stood there in his room accusing him and the cold dead eyes of the doll silently judged him. Christine was not a puppet for him to control, that was not what he wanted and it was not what she deserved.

But moments of desperation aside, he knew full well that it was more than joys of the flesh that he craved, or he would have sought them out long ago, after all there were women who would be willing to overlook his mask and general unsightliness for the right price. But what he truly wanted was love, or more specifically her love in all its gentle and unconditional purity. It had always been something he'd dreamed of, after his mother's initial rejection of him there had always been an emptiness within him; a feeling that he was only half alive. Of course he wanted to lie with her, he wanted to make love to her for hours on end and make her his in every sense of the word, he was only a man after all. But he would probably be satisfied enough to simply be in her presence, as long as it filled the emptiness.

The emptiness had always conjured an image of his mother, cold and unmoving under the ice; perhaps that was why the doll had upset him so much. He had thought that perhaps having a likeness of Christine would satisfy his growing obsession with her. His watercolours and charcoal drawings were longer enough, he had needed to focus his passion on something larger and more permanent. Capturing impressions of her had become the closest thing he could get to being with her and for a while as he had worked with the wood and the clay he could almost imagine that it was really her that he was touching as the face began to take form. But a likeness meant nothing if the work had no soul.

So he had returned to her, knowing that there could be no alternative, no way to save her from his obsession. He clutched at every lesson they had together until it was fully engrained in his memory, he wanted to hold onto those precious moments forever. He would often keep her for longer than he needed to, saying she needed more practice. He monopolised her free time and coaxed every scrap of information out of her that he could, seemingly unable to rest until he possessed her every thought, her every memory and her every dream. And when her dreams had taken a more sensual turn, the desire had become almost unbearable. It was bad enough that she was constantly tormenting him in his conscious and unconsciousness mind but knowing that she had dreamed of him in the same way and the agony of knowing that it was not him that she dreamed but his voice and the lie he had created had made him snap. He had besieged her with questions. What happened then? How did you feel? And then her absolute trust in him had begun to wear away, and he realised too late that he had made a terrible mistake and that he would have to take drastic action if he was going to make her his.

His despair had become almost tangible as he returned to the house, and had brought forth new ideas and melodies in his overactive imagination. He went straight to the music room, not even bothering to remove his boots and let the music take shape. Whether it was through pleasure or through pain, Christine would always inspire him. Everything he'd written before her had merely been exercises, studies to prepare him for his true work. He had masqueraded around as the figure from her story for years and yet he had never failed to see the irony that it was she who was the true angel of music. Everything from the way she laughed to the rhythm in her steps was made of music and as much as the world would be missing out he selfishly revelled in the knowledge that this treasure, this living muse was here with him, and had chosen his music over what was right and good.

It didn't take long for the song to take shape, in his experience music could either be a struggle to obtain or could alternatively spring fully formed into the world in a sudden moment of epiphany. He knew the exact story it would work with, as he noted it down. He would have to search for the poem amongst the chaos of his books and papers. Back in his old home he had been familiar with the mess of his working space, knowing the exact location of his every possession amongst the clutter in a sort of filing system that only he understood. That was all very well, but the move had left him out of sorts and he couldn't find anything. It was odd living above the ground again. The daylight made him nervous, exposed. And while it was still dark for most of the day he knew it could not last with onslaught of spring with its bright clean sunshine and long evenings. Just the thought of it made the skin beneath his mask tingle. He remembered how his deformity had looked in the past and how it looked now; the incidents of life could be mapped across it if one took the time to look. The crooked line of his nose where it had been broken not once but three times, the ravaged socket of his eye where the Shah of Persia's men had ripped it out and the staring glass one that now took its place, the lesions from the dark helmet he had been forced to wear, the list was far too long.

He felt her presence in the room with him before he saw her. She was standing on the threshold wearing only her nightclothes with her damp hair hanging around her, looking a lot younger than her seventeen years. How could she contain the weight of the world within her eyes yet still remain as precious as a child? She had reached an age where it was no longer appropriate to wear her hair down like that and yet she did so anyway. He hoped she would always leave it down. He realised he had stopped playing was simply staring at her like a lecherous old fool. But she looked so ethereal behind the soft glow of her paraffin lamp, he had forgotten to light the lamps in his haste making hers the only light in the room, not that he needed it, compared to the thick and all encompassing darkness of the catacombs he found that even the moon, obscured as it was by murky clouds could provide him with ample light. The candles he had adorned his home with had mainly been for her benefit for light had been a precious resource and he rarely burned more than one candle at a time.

"Oh, please don't stop on my account." She said seeming embarrassed under his gaze, moving to sit on the newly upholstered sofa. "That was wonderful."

Instead of picking up where he left off, he swiftly got up from the piano and made his way across the room. "I'm so sorry; if I had known you were coming downstairs I would have lit a fire for you." He made short work of arranging the logs from the wood-basket in the hearth and soon orange flames began to dance from the kindling.

"Thank you, it is rather cold in here." She said. There was that smile again, the one she used to give him when she'd lower her eyes shyly. I felt so much stronger now that there wasn't a wall between them.

"I think I must be used to the cold, I hardly notice it anymore." He replied awkwardly. He was lying, he always felt cold.

"What was that piece you were playing just now?" she asked "Is it new? I don't think I've heard it."

"Yes." He said "Yes, it is new. It was just an idea though, I'm afraid I don't have anything finished yet."

"It sounded terribly sad, that's not like you at all. Will you finish it?"

She had noticed it straight away, the regretful tone of his thoughts had translated through to the piece. His work before had been laden with minor keys, but they had always been powerful and imposing. He had never been able to play his sorrow for her until now but it was too late and the barriers were already beginning to come crashing down.

"I really don't know. I thought it might be the beginning of another opera, but as I said it was only an idea."

"Another? So soon? I would have thought that after Don Juan you would have been quite exhausted."

"I am, Christine. But I feel as though this will be something entirely different." He was convinced of this. While Don Juan had been a bold debut, it had not been without its flaws. The libretto had been untidy and the farce scene had needed more work than he had time for. But this new opera would be different, and with Christine by his side.

"What will it be about." She slipped off the sofa to join him on the Persian rug, although whether it was because of her desire to be closer to the fire or her eagerness to hear his story he could not tell but he could smell the scent of roses and lavender when she was near.

"I'll be basing the libretto on a poem I came across in Russia. At the time the text had been banned but I had managed to get hold of a copy that had escaped the fires. It's about the Devil, being forced to wander the Earth alone since he was cast out from heaven. It is on the Earth that he falls in love with a beautiful young maiden. Her love almost brings him to the point of redemption but in the end he cannot deny his demonic nature and once kiss from his lips will end her life, carrying her off to heaven forever and leaving alone again for all eternity."

"I'm not sure if I like that story." Christine sighed staring into the flames, her expression unreadable. She must have been aware of the parallel with their current situation, for it was hardly subtle.

"Well, it's only an idea. Perhaps we could work on something a little more optimistic." He confessed.

"Will you teach me? To write music?" her eyes held a hopeful glimmer. He knew that her father had promised to do the very same thing, but had become too ill to fulfil it. It amazed him that all her reservations seemed to slip away when it came to the topic of music.

"You already know how to write music. You're always singing little songs to yourself." He allowed himself a small smile at her enthusiasm.

"But they're nothing special, and I have no idea how to finish them or arrange them, I wouldn't know where to begin." She giggled "Oh and you must teach me all about the other music, the music from your travels."

"Oh I must, must I? Well we'll certainly have a lot to occupy us, what with training your voice and composing and learning about eastern music traditions. Is there anything else you'd like me to teach you while I'm at it."

"Everything." She laughed. The sound was second only to her singing.

"Very well, I shall add 'everything' to out to do list as well."

"I've been thinking, if Father Bernard knew you from back then does that mean other people might know you as well?"

"I hadn't thought about that, I really don't remember being here." He was finding more and more that there were huge gaping holes in his memory. Had he simply not wished to remember them, or was it something else. It had never really bothered him since he had no reason to dwell on things like India or the Tonkin Gulf, but there were things that Christine wanted to know that he couldn't even begin to remember. Perhaps it was the morphine, or maybe he was simply getting old. "I suppose we should have a story to tell if we run into anyone."

"If you were here as a child and someone recognised you from then you could always say you have been working abroad all this time. That wouldn't be a lie." She said, gazing into the flames as the licked at the dry boxwood. The golden light seemed to give her an ethereal glow as it flickered on her hair and skin.

"No, that wouldn't be a lie at all. Not that it makes much of a difference. Most people probably wouldn't believe the truth if we told it to them."

Christine nodded as she tucked her legs underneath her. It was uncomfortable on the floor but neither of them thought to move and if the child from behind her was much to go on, then it probably wouldn't have been much of an improvement. It was terribly odd that she was sitting by the fire in only her nightclothes, talking so naturally with a man who had kidnapped her once. Before that night in the cellars the very suggestion of such a thing would have seemed scandalous to her. Perhaps a result of Mme Giry's over protectiveness or the lingering sense of duty to her angel who she had sworn her chastity to back when she though their music serve sort of higher purpose. That vow had been made on false pretences it seemed and had served no other purpose than to jealously keep her away from the young men at the opera. There had been such darkness within her on that first meeting, a darkness that she thought she had buried forever but had somehow clawed its way back to the surface. Raoul would never have suspected her to be capable of such feelings, women just didn't think that way, unless they were mad or ruined. But sometimes she could swear that Erik could see it as plainly as if it were written all over her face. "I know you," his eyes would say when he looked at her "I know what you are, I know what you can do." If anyone would understand it would be him, and perhaps that was the true reason she had gone with him, although more were appear every time she thought of her decision. Erik's stories spoke of otherness, of someone who lived separately from the world and was no longer confined by its rules. Perhaps he would be the one to hesitate in his judgement and be able to see the love behind the abomination. But she couldn't quite trust him, not just yet. There had been too many lies and betrayals already and while she trusted him beyond all reason as a teacher and as a fellow artist, she was unsure that she could give him that same amount of respect as a man.

"I was wondering, perhaps if it would be safe for us to go out one day." She suggested cautiously, they had been talking quite reasonably for the past few minutes but the memory of dinner was still raw and worrying as she knew his mood could change at any moment.

"I think it would be best if we kept to ourselves for a while, Christine. But you may take walks in the garden if you wish."

"Alright."

"Perhaps when it's safer for us to venture out we could take César up to the beach."

She smiled; at least he was open to the idea and wasn't planning on keeping her locked up here. Sometimes she felt as though he longed to be free from confinement as much as she did, maybe even more. But no one had forced him to stay underground like that so why would he live there for so long especially since he had travelled so extensively in the past. What had driven him to seek sanctuary down there?

"I'd like that. Father always loved the sea, I suppose it'll always remind me of him." She said "Perhaps it was because grandfather lived so far inland he had never seen it before he came to this country. But he would always write more when we were at Perros, and I could almost hear the waves in his music."

"Your father was an incredibly talented man, Christine. It's a shame that no one seems to remember his compositions."

"Do you know them?" she asked, her eyes widening slightly. Barely anyone had heard the music of Gustaave Daaé. The few concertos he had written had received mixed reviews and had experienced a respectful revival after his death only to fall once again into obscurity.

"I managed to find a few copies of his work, I believe they're out of print but there are still a few things that turn up." He explained. "I admit I'd only known of him as a violinist but after you told me about him I felt the need to study work after you told me about it. Your praise was certainly justified."

"Yes, he was wonderful. But he lost confidence in himself after my mother died. They wrote music together you know. She was his pupil. And instead of exchanging wedding bands they had two music boxes made, each played a song they had written for each other."

She had never really talked about her mother before, it had always been a painful subject for her father and he'd only ever reminisce about her when he'd had a few too many beers. Her mother had always been a shadowy figure; she had no real memories of her as such, just impressions and feelings. And her father had always made her seem so impossibly perfect that she might as well have been a character from one of his stories. Yes her mother had been the princess and he had been the poor violinist who rescued her. It wasn't anything as dramatic as that. But her grandparents had been well to do and they had been hoping for their daughter to make a sensible choice for a husband. They certainly hadn't wanted her to run off with some penniless piano teacher almost twenty years he senior, who had once been a notorious lover of bohemia. And they definitely hadn't wanted her to do such a thing when she was engaged to another man and about to be married that very morning.

She once again noted the similarities between her mother's story and her own. They had both felt the need to leave with their teacher and both of them had felt torn between what was expected of them and what they believed, even their ages were the same at the time of this momentous decision. Had her mother been as unsure as she was? If her mother had been alive the night her father died, would she have done the same thing?

"It's getting late." She said finally, realising she had been daydreaming again and the dim face of the clock on the mantel read that it was already eleven "I should probably be getting to bed."

"Yes." Erik said also glancing at the clock "We can begin your lesson after breakfast, and I'll try to find the your father's sheet music before then if you'd like"

"Yes, I'd like that very much...Goodnight Erik"

A/N – So things are getting underway, there were more conflicts as per usual and some possible reconciliation? Yay XD. Everyone's after Erik it seems: the police, Mme Giry, Raoul, the managers. I was even going to add Nadir and the Shah to the mix but thought that would probably overcomplicate everything, so the passage I wrote for them might appear in another story. Or just sit in my fanfiction folder, gathering binary dust. On a completely unrelated note my room in France was full of stink bugs. They're a bit like scarab beetles but they spray you with a really disgusting almond-like smell if you upset them. I don't know where they came from but I spent ages trying to convince the little buggers that they'd be a lot better off on the outside of the window than on the inside. But other than pest problems, France was really nice, and inspiring as usual. I was near Bergerac this time around but we decided to visit Chartres on the way back to Britain which is so pretty I could hardly believe it. The cathedral is just amazing and really worth a visit. They also opened up a new cave near to where my parents live, so being a massive dork I went down there, and at first it only looked like it was the size of my living room but then we went around a corner and it was just this forest of stalagmites and it went on for about a mile and there was an underground river and it was just freaking awesome, y'know proper underdark stuff. So yeah you could say the trip inspired me a little XD

Here are some notes on some of the references:

Paul Lhérie was a tenor who was most well known for creating the role of Don José in Bizet's Carmen.

Les Troyens was an early work by Berlioz based on Virgil's Aneaid. I was just working on the logic that Erik probably cobbled that bed in the movie together at the last minute out of some old set pieces.

And the poem which Erik's new opera is based on is The Demon by Mikhail Lermontov, which I'd highly recommend reading. It's quite an underrated work of19th century Russian Romanticism and draws quite heavily on Milton and all those other Lucifer orientated epics.

Also, I forgot to mention this earlier but this story is set in 1881. Because the time period in the film was so wrong it wasn't even funny.