A/N: Warning: Language

The first thing she heard coming out of a bottomless sleep was music.

Lashes flickering, she groaned as she sat up with effort. It felt as if she had been hit by a truck. A massive number of pillows surrounded her as well as a thick polyester blanket that enveloped her body.

A layered veil blocked her from seeing whoever was on the keys. Throbbing memories pounded, all at once trying to burst in.

Where was she?

The piano in the background played on, its intricate ballad was in odd contrast with her confused state. Lifting a hand to her head, she tried to recall what had happened.

"Ok...ok...ok..." she chanted quietly to herself, worried that the composer beyond the curtain was un-friendly.

Apparently he was too engrossed, and did not hear her panicked murmurs.

"I remember..." she struggled. "There was a voice..."

Twinkling notes tip-toed on the air.

"...and it led me through a... tunnel...?"

The chords cascaded into a somber, low tune.

"...so dark..."

The tempo pace swirled into a steady andante.

Mindlessly, she whisked the coverlet off and stood.

"...there were candles all around..." she noted as she noticed the faint illumination of said candles burn dimly beyond the veil.

Tentatively, she reached out and slowly swiped the velveteen barrier away.

As she laid her eyes upon the lair, everything flooded back.

"...there was a man..."

Finding him easily at the center of the den upon his usual bench, hands at the white and black keys, he played furiously. It seemed impossible for one person to create so much, but he did it. It was a forlorn, complex piece that would rise to frightening crescendos and then sway back into solemnity. He played so fluidly, she could practically see the intended story unfold.

Clearly, it was meant to be an epic tragedy.

Compelled to creep closer, she only saw the slight glimmer of the phantom's mask, for his back was turned, hunched over his prized possession, his only companion.

Still in the same leather, jean garb, did he ever sleep?

"Who was that shape in the shadows?" she pondered allowed.

At this, he froze, and the music harshly cut off. Unabated, she treaded apprehensively toward him. When her steps brushed onto the stone, he twisted his unkempt head to her. An equal uneasiness was in his eye as she approached.

Stopping just before him, she peered curiously down. Surely this was a dream, she assumed. All inside her mind...

Captivated by her, the way she was seemingly unafraid, unaffected, he remained motionless.

"Who is the face in the mask?" she squeaked.

Too quick for him to act, he felt as his guise was wrenched from his face. Blind rage exploded within him simultaneously.

"Dammit!" he howled, flinging a music stand to the wall, shattering it.

Stomping away from her, he covered his right side with his hand, spitting profanities.

Petrified, she fell to the hard, stone ground, the mask still clutched in her bruising hand, unable to look away from his rampage, to notice the scratches on her forearms.

"Fucking girl!" he swore, snarling, smashing anything in his path. "What have you done?!"

The very floor trembled as he destroyed his own home. Stamping to the water's edge, he glanced at his murky, wavering reflection, which aggravated him further.

Unmitigated fury reigned over all senses. Turning quickly to her, he charged. Hair even more wild, bouncing in several different directions, his uncovered eye was feral, a perpetual inferno directed at her, scalding her the closer he got.

"Is this what you wanted to see?!" he yelled, a cruel finger pointed at his face.

Quaking with fright upon the cold brick, she said nothing, did nothing.

Whisking back around, his shoulders hunched over more with each abhorrent step away.

"Now that you've seen it..." he whimpered into the damp air. "...you can never be free..."

Only his heavy breathing was heard, hers was caught, unable to escape.

Self-loathing and cold calculation began to ice the anger. Swearing profusely for another moment, he took a long breath, straightening.

Completely unsure how he was going to act next, she scooted away from him as he once again came back to her. Before they had been like magnets, now they were repulsive to one another. Sighing, he crouched to her level a few yards away, stopping his advance, pleading.

"Worse than you thought," he presumed, hollow voice just above a whisper. "Can you even look at me? At this...this loathsome gargoyle who burns in Hell, but secretly..."

He inhaled pointedly. Her heart was softening at his tear-jerking confession, but her body was rigid with fear, on complete shutdown, unwilling to bend.

"...stupidly...yearns for Heaven...?" a fragile tear rolled out of his haunted eye.

When the liquid drop plummeted to the ground, a monster's remorse, she began to thaw as well. Raw, she inched toward him carefully. Unlike her, he did not move away.

She had been right, the mask was hand-crafted. Unsure of what material, it was certainly not plastic but it had a purposeful flexibility; however, it was made to snap obediently back into place, to cling uniformly. A translucent string ran across the back. The frown lines were delicately carved and painted, the depressed eye drooped expressively, it seemed that it was always on the verge of weeping violently, as if it would come alive just to cry.

The golden color would appear to be an unconventional choice for such a piece, but it worked. It reminded her of an angel in mid-fall who was still clothed in glory but knew its ultimate fate.

Only a few feet away, she extended it to him, a peace offering, an apology. Snatching it savagely, he twisted back around, balanced on his toes, and positioned it back into its familiar spot. As he did he relinquished a relieved exhale.

Then he stood and turned to offer her a hand. Taking it, her face was crestfallen, ashamed of her rash action. Yet, there was also a bloodcurdling fear. She had not gotten a full glance of the deformity, but she had seen enough. All she could think of was fire, of skin melting off bone, bloody wax. The second phase of the fall, all luminosity gone in the pits of Hades, there was no grace for the archangel who had become the devil.

There was nothing left to say, but he had to try to make her understand, make her realize her place in his plans.

Suddenly he grasped her hands, holding them protectively. Limp, she was completely drained, unable to snap away. She stared emptily back at him, ignoring the spark of his skin.

"Don't I deserve a chance at love?" he asked with a hint of aggression at first which then collapsed into despair. "Oh, Nadya..."

And she could not answer him. His previous words still stung like stab wounds. It was too much to absorb: A fallen angel, a warped face, and soul-igniting passion. He had been her reason to sing again. Swallowing densely, she choked down a sob.

"Please," she begged, gazing into that split face. "Take me back."

The sliver of hope within him crumbled. The threat of loneliness, of remaining in exile from humanity, away from her, away from her voice...it crushed him.

Yet still trying to prove that he wasn't a complete beast, he consented, leading her back. It was a far less magical trip. There was the awkward situation of pulling her through the hole from the other side, which still sent of flurry of shocks up her spine when he laid his hands on hers, but otherwise it was deadly silent.

A light at the end of the dark tunnel, she saw it for what it was now: The mirror was a doorway, a cheap parlor trick.

Disillusioned, he brought her to the edge of the corridor, but did not cross the boundary between lair and real world.

She crossed her arms and blushed fiercely, not sure what to say as she stepped out. Before she could decide whether to thank him or scream, he spoke.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, his strange tone defeated. "For everything. If you choose to never return..." he gulped. "I-I will understand."

And with that, he was gone, his fading form disappeared beyond the closed mirror. When she was sure he was out of ear shot, she began to break down. Crumpling, she put her grieved head in her hands, letting the pent up emotions of the last day have their way.

She had not wanted this. Everything had been floating up in the air. She thought she could keep it balanced on the tightrope, but gravity said otherwise. All she had built over the last few years crashed down around her. It wasn't just the fact she had truly believed that the voice was an angel, not just the fact that she had let her wounded heart hope, but that it all had been smoke and mirrors.

Betrayed. That was the word.

It was a similar feeling, a familiar one. It was the same as what she had experienced at dad's funeral two years ago as she stared at his bleak coffin. Her father had promised her...he promised her! Vowed that he would never leave her side, made a pact. One he broke.

Sure, she could counter that it wasn't his fault, he obviously did not want to die, but she couldn't help the anger, couldn't calm the storm that raged behind a passive semblance.

Fury turned to idealism, fantasy, the scourge of broken memories. Now she was back to ire, full circle.

War upon them both! she thought rashly. I don't need anyone! All they do is lie...

Giving one last sniffle, she clenched her fists and stood resolutely, a deserter against the firing squad.

Jaw raised tightly, she spat out:

"The tears I might have shed for your dark fate grow cold, and turn to tears of hate!"

Earsplitting yet lovely as always, she hoped he heard it in whatever cave he now lurked. Pivoting on a heel, she hurried away, slamming the door on her way.

Indeed, he did hear it. It pierced him to the core, but he could not deny the accusation. Picking up the downed bench, he sat upon it with a blank, numbed expression. It was not his first dance with revulsion, and would not be his last.

Half-hearted, dismal arpeggios reverberated weakly. The gargoyle turned back to stone.