AN: To anyone who has this on their alerts list, I aoplogize for the broken link that got sent to you in the email. I would suggest going back to the previous chapter (chapter 1) and reading that before this or you might be a little confused.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are very much appreciated!

The tunnels were as dark and damp as Christine remembered them. She hardly had to strain her memory to recall the way to Erik's home. Her feet seemed to be moving with a mind of their own, as her mind was frantically trying to stop them. But they continued on, curious and wondering. She found herself at the edge of the lake, the water lapping gently on the stone shore. She lifted herself into the boat that seemed to be waiting for her and rhythmically rowed the small vessel across the still lake. It was silent, deadly silent, save for the sound of the water quietly teasing the side of the boat.

She knew that it was unlikely that anything beneficial would come from this, but her curiosity had the best of her. She wanted to know if Erik was really here, or if she was just imagining things. But it would be nearly impossible to imagine what she had felt while she was singing only just that night. It must have been him. But she wanted to see for herself.

She reached the shore on the other side, climbed out of the boat, and saw that the door to his home was left carelessly wide open; the first clue that something was not right. Her pace quickened as she became worried for Erik, but not knowing why she was so concerned at the same time. She stepped into the sitting room of his home, the first room encountered when going through the door.

It was a mess.

There were broken vases and plates, a turned over table, crumpled up pieces of paper, and a canvas smashed in. Shards of glass were strewn across the room. A violin that laid on the table, left there haphazardly, was in danger of falling. Bottles of liquor dotted the room, some overturned and empty, the last of the drink dripping slowly onto the carpet. What had been untouched was covered in a fil of cobwebs and dust. And in the midst of it all was a mask-less Erik.

He stood in the center of the sitting room, suit coat and waistcoat in a crumpled heap on the floor next to him, cravat undone, and shoes kicked into a corner. His hair, which he usually wore off his forehead perfectly, had fallen down and strands hung on his brow. He clenched his fists, and his shoulders and limbs were stiff. His mouth was set in a firm line. His eyes betrayed the most emotion though. The golden hazel color was blazing, flashing, and they seemed to almost glow. It was frightening, seeing the opera ghost in all his rage and glory. It almost scared her, but she remembered that she had seemed him in even worse of a temper before.

They stared at each other for a moment before his lips parted. "What are you doing here?" he said in a low, bass voice. She remembered clearly how beautiful his voice was, even when he was speaking, how it portrayed every emotion perfectly. Now, it matched his anger. Every word was low; the sound was dark, his voice stifling each word and covering it in velvet.

"I could be asking you that same question," Christine replied, trying to keep her voice steady when it wanted to waver. Her heart was racing and she would have been surprised if he could not hear it pounding against her ribcage. He looked at her intently for a while, his eyes guarded, bordering up the windows to his mind and thoughts. She stared back unflinchingly, bravely lifting her eyes to meet his own .

"Get out," he murmured in a deathly quiet vice that was frighteningly powerful at the same time. "Now," he added in the same fierce tone.

"No. I came down here to find out something, and I will not leave until I do," Christine bit back, urging her voice to sound strong even though she was shaking. She hoped he would attribute it to the cold. "Why have you returned?" she asked, the words ringing clear in the air after she spoke them.

"I owe you no explanation," he said defiantly.

"Four years," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Four years, and no one sees neither hide nor hair of you. We thought you might have been dead. And you arrive unexpectedly, for no reason? It is not possible. There must be some kind of rationale behind your appearance.

"I have already told you, I owe you nothing. Now leave," he commanded, taking one long threatening stride towards her. She cursed in her mind. His voice, so controlling, it took all her willpower not to obey and walk out the door.

"I am going nowhere until you give me an explanation."

"Go."

"I told you, I am not leaving until you enlighten me."

He looked at her for a moment and seemed to realize that she was not going to leave. He regarded her coldly, looking her up and down with his searching gilded eyes.

"I came back," he began, and she heard his voice waver slightly. This surprised her, for he was a master at concealing his emotions through a trained voice and barricaded eyes. "because I need you to sing for me."

This surprised her even more, and she couldn't find any words to say.

He continued. "These past four years I have toiled away, trying to finish one last work before I am content to die. My work has been fruitless. All my compositions have been inadequate, and try as I might I could not finish this piece. I cannot rest without finishing it. It eats away at my soul, and soon what little that is left will be gone. But Christine…if you sing for me, if you just lend me your voice until I complete it, I will be at ease to die. You will be able to forget about me, but if you do not consent, you will face years of my presence haunting these halls. Just finish this with me, and you can forget, move on with your new life…" he finished, and as the walls fell from his eyes she saw that the almighty Opera Ghost was pleading with her. He looked so broken, and just listening to him and hearing his heavenly voice she couldn't resist. He was pulling at her heartstrings. She was a marionette, a puppet at his disposal, and she caved.

"What must I do?" she asked.

His eyes lit up, shining with hope, before he blocked out all emotion. "Sing for me. Help me to get the opera to perfection. I will give you the score tomorrow. Of course, as for your payment…if you bring your music for the operas you are producing I will help you with those as I did before. Or if financial aid would be of assistance to you, I am—"

"No," Christine interrupted, shaking her head. "I don't want money. Just teach me again, and I will be satisfied."

He nodded curtly. "It is settled then. Tomorrow after your rehearsal I will be waiting behind the dressing room mirror. Don't be late."

She bobbed her head. "Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Christine…do you need me to escort you up?"

"No, I can find my way," she assured him. He raised the eyebrow on the unscarred side of his face. "Really," she insisted. "I'll be fine."

With that, she turned on her heel and left.

As she journeyed back to the world above, her mind was racing with thoughts. His appearance hadn't changed one bit. He was still tall and lanky, and she barely reached his shoulder. His face was the same; the familiar scars on one side of his face hadn't changed. The unblemished side of his face was still characterized by a high, sculpted cheekbone, a long, thin dark brow, flashing golden eye, and the lip that started there was perfectly formed. His hair was the same dark brown, near to black, and still pushed off his forehead. That was all unchanged. But his attitude towards her was completely different. He had been so passionate before, and now he was cool, apathetic, and indifferent. She knew she deserved it, but couldn't help but miss the life that had been so present in him before. Now he seemed corpse-like, not in the way of his face but his demeanor. He seemed so lifeless. It hurt her, seeing the drastic change, and knowing she was most likely the cause. She did not love him, no, but at the same time she could not hate him, even if she wanted to. Thus, she felt for him.

These thoughts filled her head as she continued her journey home. They occupied her thoughts as she tried to fall asleep beneath the thin blankets. The cold bit at her toes and nose and she curled into a ball to retain the fading warmth. The thoughts bound her, chained her, and did not free her to the much sought after peaceful arms of sleep until late in the night.

Christine spent the majority of rehearsal the next day thinking about what was to come after. Her lack of focus was evident. Her high notes were sharp and the sound was shrill. She forgot the repeat in measure thirty six, and a few of her lines slipped her memory. Reyer was not too pleased and expressed his feelings after rehearsal. She promised him perfection the next day. He let her off, knowing that it was not very often that Christine had a bad day and she was usually quick to get over her seldom off days.

She hurried to the dressing room, ignoring Meg's attempt to catch her eye as she scurried through the hallways to her dressing room. She let herself in and locked the door. Looking into the mirror, she took a deep breath. Why am I doing this again? She found herself questioning why in the world she had thrown herself in this position once more. She could have left him alone by the lake in the dark without hope of her return, but she had promised to sing for him again. She supposed it was because he had her wrapped around his finger still with the compelling sound of his voice. She also couldn't stand to leave him there so broken. His eyes, oh how they had pleaded…and she had caved.

She stood there, seemingly alone with her thoughts, but she knew he had come.

"Erik?" she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I am here," he replied. His deep voice made her shudder involuntarily. She was quickly reminded about the power that it possessed, though she had never forgotten.

The mirror shifted unwillingly, uttering a high pitched screech as it did so. Erik stood behind. One hand was held out to her, garbed in his usual white silk glove, and the other held a lantern. It lit up the unmasked side of his face, illuminating the sculpted cheekbone and arching brow. Christine gingerly took the extended hand and he helped her through the threshold.

"Good evening," he greeted. Christine felt her knees go weak. "I trust your rehearsal went well? I was planning on sitting in on some of it but I was caught up in other engagements."

"It was fine, thank you," she lied. She was glad that he had been occupied; if he had watched from the shadows he would have been less than pleased.

He let go of her hand and she let it drop solitarily to her side. He led the way through the tunnels silently, the only sound to be heard was the soft swishing of his cloak and of her dress, and the thump of his shoes. They reached the lake and he leapt into the small vessel with catlike elegance. He held out his hand once more in a gentleman-like fashion. She accepted it again and stepped onto the boat with as much grace as she could muster with the full skirts of her dress, calling back whatever poise she had retained from her dancing days. He seemed to not mind that she stumbled slightly and his hand sprang to her lower back to balance her. Once she had regained her stability he quickly removed it.

He rowed expertly and the paddle slid through the water easily. Time lapsed as she stared at the murky lake, eyes unfocused. It felt like a dream or like she had been thrown back in time. It did not feel like the present. But the sound of the soft breaths emanating from Erik's lanky form folded up into the cramped seat behind her assured her that it was real.

They reached the shore and he got out and pulled the boat all the way onto shore, the hem of his pants teasing the surface of the water. His eyes lingered on her hand as he gently clasped it to help her out. He opened the door to his home and let her inside.