Chapter Two: Erik

Walking through the remains of the opera house was both eerie and saddening. It was quiet. Too quiet. Like the silence of the grave, like the silence of the tomb. How many people had lost their lives in the fire? How many souls had suffered in these walls? Their spirits seemed to linger, whispering in the breeze that came through the broken windows, slinking in the shadows of the smoke-stained walls, swirling in the ash that fluttered up like powdery snow with every footstep that echoed through the deserted halls. Once, this place had been beautiful. Once, its halls had echoed with the laughter of a thousand spectators, with the voices that could rival the angels. Now it was in ruins. If it had been frightening when the Phantom was alive, it was horrifying now that he was gone. It was as if the opera house itself was in mourning, as if the very soul of music had died with him, leaving the place deserted and empty, devoid of all the passion with which he had brought it to life.

A sudden movement out of the corner of her eye caught Christine's attention. A flash of midnight, a streak of black like the corner of a cape, like a spectral silhouette. Glancing nervously back over her shoulder, Christine hurried her steps. Was it him? Could it be that he was haunting her, no longer a man but truly a ghost of the opera, doomed to walk its halls forever? There it was again! Something moving in the shadows, something hiding in the dark. Her pace quickened and her breathing came in quick bursts. The blood was pounding in her ears. Her heart was beating so loudly she was certain that she could hear its rhythm reverberating off the walls. No – it was music! His music! It came like a siren's call, wafting over the waves.

I am the Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music.

The haunting melody, once so sweet and entrancing, now made her blood run cold.

I am the Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music.

Screaming, she dropped the flowers she had been carrying and ran to the chapel. When she turned to look back, the flowers had vanished. Had she looked a bit closer, she would have noticed a shadowy figure retreating into the darkness, its only distinguishable feature a white half-mask that seemed to float where its head should have been.

Slamming the door behind her, she stood with her back against the oaken panel, breathing heavily before slowly sinking to the floor. Though much of the opera house had been destroyed in the flames, the simple chapel, a small room near the back of the building composed mainly of stone, had managed to emerge relatively unscathed. It was just as she remembered it. Even the stained-glass window remained intact, the sun's afternoon rays filtering through the colored glass and giving the room a soft, comforting glow. Calmed by the presence of familiarity and light, Christine carefully lit two candles – one for her father and one for her nameless angel. A fallen angel, perhaps, but still her angel. No, not an angel, she reminded herself, he is – was – only a man. But what else do I call him when I do not know his name? Phantom surely seems too harsh of a title for paying respects to the dead! No, he shall be my Angel of Music still. Oh, how I wish that were true! How I wish things had not turned out this way! If only I had not been so curious, perhaps I would not have followed him, perhaps I never would have removed his mask. Perhaps it would have been better if he had remained only The Voice. Perhaps then he would still be alive.

With these thoughts in mind, she knelt down, closed her eyes, and began pouring out her heart in song and prayer, hoping that, if nothing else, she might try to give him some peace in the afterlife. Raising her voice in a heartfelt and familiar melody, the words flowed from her lips with all the tenderness and sincerity of a woman in love, for though she loved her fiancé and deeply cared about her Angel, her first love had always been music and the God who had given her such a voice. And she always sang best when she was singing for Him.

No more talk of darkness, I give you all my fears.

You're here, nothing can harm me. Your Word, it warms and calms me.

You gave me my freedom. You gave me my life.

You're here, always beside me, to guard me and to guide me.

Show Your mercy every waking moment. Show me what to do with my life.

I know I need You with me now and always. Help me know that all You say is true.

That's all I ask of You.

You have been my shelter. You have been my Light.

I know with You beside me, You'll protect and You'll hide me.

Show Your mercy that is new each morning. Forgive those who fail to follow You.

Show Your mercy to him now and always. Forgive him as you know I do.

Please, Lord, that's all I ask of You.

Forgive him. That's all I ask of You.

Christine felt the increasingly familiar warmth of tears on her cheek. "And please," she whispered, "please let him forgive me, too."

"I already have."

Her eyes snapped open. Glancing wildly around the empty room, she was suddenly uneasy. "Who said that? Who's there?...Whoever you are, I demand to see you!"

"Come, Christine. You know I prefer to be heard and not seen. Surely you have not forgotten the voice of an old friend so quickly?"

Forget? How could she ever forget that voice? That beautiful, haunting, disembodied voice who had once brought her so much comfort and peace. That angelic voice who had called to her in her dreams, who had sung her to sleep as a child. That magnificent voice filled with passion and pain. That voice who had sung to her of love and betrayal, of tenderness and violence, of self-loathing and selflessness. No, Christine could never forget that voice.

"Y-you can't be here. You're dead!"

"Am I, now?"

From the shadows in the far corner, a figure emerged. Wrapped in a dark cloak and clad in black boots and gloves, he was an intimidating sight. Even his hair, which she now knew to be only a wig, was dark. A familiar white porcelain half-mask covered the right side of his face. He took a step toward the girl, only to have her shrink back toward a corner on the opposite side of the room.

"You're not real…You can't be!"

Frowning, the spectral visitor came further into the light and knelt down so that he was at eye level with her. He looked genuinely hurt. "Christine, please, don't be afraid of me." He reached out a gloved hand and gently caressed her cheek, turning her head so that she faced him. "Hideous though I may appear inside and out, whether in life or in death, you should know that I would never harm you."

Christine's eyes widened. She had felt that! She had actually felt his fingers touch her face! And they were not the cold, unfeeling fingers of a dead man or a ghost. They radiated with warmth and life. Which meant… "Angel?" she whispered.

"No," he corrected. Hesitantly, he took her hand, rubbing his thumb against the back of her palm. "Erik. My name is Erik."

Suddenly, his thumb found something hard and metallic. Seeing the ring, he stood and turned away. His voice was suddenly cold. "You should not have come back, Christine."

The girl walked toward him and timidly placed a hand on his shoulder. "I shall not wear it if it troubles you."

"Are you happy with your…" Erik closed his eyes, as if in pain. He wasn't sure if he could say the word out loud. "…your husband?"

"He is not my husband," she snapped. Christine was shocked at her own audacity. When did she become so defensive of her status as a single young woman? "…Yet…" she added, somewhat more quietly.

"But he will be, in time. And then you can forget me and move on with your life…When is the wedding?"

Christine's hand slipped slowly from his shoulder. She stared at the ground. "In two weeks."

The phantom smiled ruefully. "I suppose I am not on the guest list…"

"No," Christine whispered, "but you may come if you wish. I would like for you to be there."

"It would probably be in the Vicomte de Changy's best interest if I were not."

The implication of his words sent shivers down her spine. The thought of Raoul hanging from the church ceiling on their wedding day was not something Christine wished to think about. The room seemed suddenly colder, the air thicker, as if an invisible wall had arisen between them. They stood in silence for a moment, neither one knowing what to say.

Christine was the first to break the silence. "Even after all that has happened…Even though we do not feel the same way for one another…you are still my Angel. You always will be."

"Do not call me that, Christine. You know as well as I do that I am more monster than man, more devil than angel. You know the horrors I am capable of. God has cursed me with the face of a demon, and so a demon I shall be!"

Christine was suddenly indignant. "Do not blame your sins on God! You made the decision to murder Joseph Buquet! You made that chandelier fall! You killed all those innocent people."

He turned slowly to face her, speaking through clenched teeth. "They deserved it."

"For what? For being in the wrong place at the wrong time? For seeing your face?"

Grabbing her by the arms, he shoved her against the wall, looking suddenly dangerous. "No, that was YOUR fault, WASN'T IT?" He took a moment to calm himself. When he spoke, his voice was a low hiss, ragged with jealously and pain. "All that I did, I did out of love for you. And you betrayed me."

"You had no right to kill those men."

"AND WHAT RIGHT HAD THEY? What right had they to jeer, to mock? What right had humanity to banish me from their sight, to bar me from companionship or love of any kind and leave me to rot away in a living HELL labeled as the devil's spawn?...Society wanted me to be a child of Satan, so I made certain they knew that I was! I had EVERY right to exercise my vengeance!"

Christine shook her head sadly, eyes filled with tears. "You have hidden for so long behind that mask, that you have forgotten what it is like to be human. Your deformity itself is as a mask you use to shield yourself from guilt by using it as an excuse for your behavior. You are what you have made yourself. Fear does not turn to love, Erik! Nor does it turn into respect. The world may believe you to be the devil's child, but the mask does not fool me. I can see straight through it. I know you're better than that…I just wish that you could see that for yourself."

She allowed a single tear to slip free then, shoving him aside, turned and ran out the door. Reluctantly, he watched her leave, waiting until her shape melted into the shadows and the echoes of her footsteps dissolved into silence before he fell to his knees and allowed his own tears to flow.