This chapter is for my friend who told me that the story seems to be moving slowly, I hope this is an improvement! :)

He just stood there in the dark, staring at his deformed face searching for something. He didn't know what exactly he was looking for, perhaps a way to escape the pain he felt over the loss of Christine. But his hood was down and he was staring at his reflection, at his naked and deformed face- the face that was the source of all his pain. God did he hate it! What he wouldn't give to have a different face, one that was free of any scares or burns or anything unnatural. He lied down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling for hours, waiting to be whisked away by fatigue and imagination. But alas, never did he close his eyes and sleep. His thoughts raced in his mind, unable to calm them.

When the sun rose, he dressed in fresh clothes he had found in the dresser drawers and put on his cloak and walked to Lee/Arie's room. He knocked several times, but there was no answer. He tried the door knob, he was surprised to find that it turned and he entered the room. But there was no one there. He called for her several times and even checked the other doors in her quarters, nothing, completely barren of life. But in all his searching for her, he came upon something rather interesting, actually. Numerous posters and flyers for various operas lay all over the floor and on the walls. The only one he recognized was a poster for the famous French opera, Carmen. Something else caught his eye. He noticed a similarity between all of them; they all starred someone named...Alessandro Rodolfo

"Aless...alice..hand...ro Row…doll..fo," he attempted to pronounce the name out loud but failed miserably.

"Rodolfo, Alessandro Rodolfo." Erik turned around to find Lee/Arie standing in the doorway. She was looking almost nostalgically at the posters, picking up each one that had fallen to the floor and stacking them neatly.

"Who's that?" Erik asked, curious about her obsession.

"He was one of the greatest opera singers in the world," she said as if just passing out a fact. There was one poster in particular that she picked up and just stared at, not wanting to take her eyes away. He peered over her shoulder.

"La Traviata, very much the greatest performance he ever gave, also my favorite." She smiled quietly to herself. Something in her smile just added more questions to his brain. It was as if she was remembering a fond memory.

"So were you obsessed with him, an avid admirer or what?" He asked looking at the other posters on the walls.

"He used to say that his greatest inspiration came from his biggest fan and the person who held the most room in his heart." This time her smile was weak, you could even say it was sad.

"When he told people this, they would ask who he meant. He'd simply tell them it was the little angel that answered all of his prayers." She hung the La Traviata poser on the wall and ran a hand over his painted face; a small tear ran down her face. Erik watched her intently, seeing a deep love for this man through her eyes, a great love that he would never experienced, but also seeing a great loss which he had.

"Alessandro Rodalfo was my father," she said meekly. "Alfredo Germont in La Traviata was his final and greatest performance, the one I'll never forget for as long as I live." Another tear rolled down her cheek.

"What happened to him?" He asked quietly.

"A few weeks before opening night for La Traviata, he became very ill. For many weeks, he laid in bed, coughing. But ever the dedicated singer, and not wanting to disappoint his greatest fan, he continued practicing and preparing for the Opera. When opening night came, he performed. He poured his heart and soul, along with every last bit of life and energy left in him, into his performance. His performance so powerful and so deeply passionate, that it blew away even those who had hated the Opera. It was easily my favorite.

"At the very end, when he came out, people threw roses and flowers of all types on stage. He picked up a yellow one and walked down the stage and handed it to me, kissing me on the cheek and hugging me tightly." Her eyes were glazed over with unshed tears. The worst of the story had yet to come.

"At the party after the performance, he walked around in a bit of a limp. His face was pale, his head was sweating, and his touch was cold. He collapsed on his way home," she choked on this last statement, grabbing her throat.

"The doctors told me that he died of pneumonia and that his heart simply stopped." Her voice cracked and a few more tears fell.

"The morning after, the house was cleaned out and I was moved to an orphanage. But before I left, someone stopped by the house, seeking me out. The man handed something to me, a program from the opera. There was an inscription on the back. It read, 'To the little angel that answered my prayers, it's all for you. Happy Birthday.' They told me it was in his coat pocket when they found him. He must have planned to put it on my pillow that night when he returned home, but died before he could deliver it." A hand covered her mouth as she recalled her most painful memory. Erik had once thought that the pain he felt could never be matched, but it was then that he realized he had found his match and even a new champion.

"When did he die?" He couldn't help but ask, wanting to know how long she had lived with her loss.

"Sixteen years ago next month," she wiped away her tears and pulled herself together. "I was barely nine years old, merely a child."

"Oh," was all he could manage. She cleared her throat and found a timid smile and led him out of the room.

"Now, what were you doing in here?" She cocked an eyebrow, and then headed over to the couch which was filled with boxes and bags.

"What's all this?" He said astonished at the mere number of them all.

"Don't change the subject," she opened a box to reveal a pair of elegant shoes, women's clothing, etc.

"I wanted to talk to you about what happened last night." His mind went over last night's events again, the way she had reacted to Pierre's kidnapping. The mess she had made in the front room; Sabine's sobs.

"Why would you want to talk about something that doesn't involve you?"

"But it does concern me, they want my ring," her shoulders dropped.

"So?" Her response was weak, making it obvious she had thought about this.

"They're ransoming Pierre for my ring, I'm pretty sure that qualifies as being involved," he said impatiently. She spun around and faced him, looking him straight in the eye.

"Yeah, but that doesn't matter, they're not getting it, or anything for that matter." Her lie was so terrible that she even winced while saying it.

"Aren't you going to ask me to give it up to save Pierre's life?" She smirked.

"I was actually going to steal it from you," she was so blunt and honest that it sort of blew him away.

"What?"

"I was until this morning,"

"What happened this morning?" He became suspicious and walked even closer to her.

"Who are you?" She seemed to try to change the subject.

"Answer the question," his temper rising a little. "Don't try and change the subject."

"I wasn't, it has to do with this morning," she glared a little and smirked at him. He clenched his fists, annoyed.

"Just a poor, broken hearted man," he chose his words carefully.

"I'll say, and one hell of an Opera singer." He froze, what was she getting at? What did she know?

"What are you talking about?" He backed up a little; she took a step towards him.

"That ring looked almost too familiar at first," she smiled a sly grin and took another step towards him, he took another back.

"Mademoiselle, I'm sure you are mistaken," he swallowed a little and stood his ground. She took another step to him, reached up, and pulled down his hood. His bare face hit the harsh light, he cringed and waited for a scream of horror, he even closed his eyes, not wanting to see her reaction. After several seconds, he felt a hand touch his deformed face. He opened his eyes and saw she was looking straight at him, not even a flash of horror. She wasn't frightened at all; she just gently felt the scars and burns and looked into his eyes.

"She must have truly wounded you," she looked deeper within him. "Your eyes hold great sorrow and emptiness. I'm truly sorry." He felt so confused.

"Aren't you frightened by me?" He asked with a furious growl. "Doesn't looking at this horrify you?" He points to his face. She just smiles.

"The only thing about you that scares me is the fact that you can't fist fight for shit," he lets out a laugh that makes her smile even wider.

"Besides, you're more afraid of you than I could ever be," she withdrew her hand, but he caught it and held it up to his face once more and leaned against it, closing his eyes to remember every touch he felt.

"How do you know all this?" He asked her quietly.

"Because I was there that night," she stepped even closer to him, nearly pressing against his chest. "I saw the pain and anguish in your face when you fled the opera house." He opened his eyes and looked at her. She looked back at him with so much kindness and understanding, something he had not seen for a very, very long time. He couldn't deny that he was drawn to her, but he didn't want to admit it, fearing she may not feel the same and afraid he may let go of Christine.

"Erik," he whispered sweetly to her. "My name is Erik." She smiled a little.

"Nice to meet you," she stepped away and shook his hand then turned back to the boxes and bags. He felt a shiver of embarrassment and quickly pulled the hood back up, covering his face.

A/N:

Wooo! Chapter 4 is done! Chapter 5 will be here next Saturday! I'm going to be releasing chapters on a weekly basis, up until chapter eleven which hasn't been written... Anyways. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, especially since things started to heat up a little! I don't do fluff though, I just thought I should mention that! Anyways, please review, I love to hear what I could improve on! Thanks again!

Luce, your Surly Mermaid (now that I think about it...I'm not actually that surly...huh...)