A/N: Part three of six.

The chapter in which the story as we know it begins...

Chapter warning(s): Possible trigger warning for assault. Within parameters of rating but more intense than last chapter. Also, take in consideration that the opinions displayed by the characters do not necessarily reflect that of the author.

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The Fiddler's Daughter

By Catsitta

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"Little Lotte, where is your red scarf? You could not have possibly lost it after I rescued it from the sea."

Christine smiled as she turned to face the young man approaching her backstage after a successful rehearsal. Meg stood wide-eyed and twittering nearby, clearly enthralled by the possibility that the handsome patron knew her friend. The years were kind to the Vicomte de Chaney. He was blond, blue-eyed, and rich—the second son of a manner house with a destiny paved in golden bricks. She was still the plain, orphaned daughter of a poor violinist, her fortune hopefully to be found at center stage. Christine had secured a named role as Marguerite, and it was her crowning accomplishment thus far. No longer were they children playing by the ocean, but a rising star soprano of almost sixteen and a military destined son of nobility of eighteen. In their new roles of burgeoning adulthood, their places in society were laid clear.

However, both of them tossed aside rank for a brief moment as they remembered those brief days on the seaside so long ago.

"Raoul, how good to see you."

"Christine, it is my pleasure. It has been too long, we must speak! Come along, let us have lunch."

"I-I, I can't…"

"Oh nonsense, you change, let me fetch my hat. Fifteen minutes, Little Lotte!"

As Raoul ambled away, Christine clutched a hand to her breast and let out a shuddering sigh. They were not children anymore. He was a nobleman and she an actress, to consort outside of the Opera House would be…quite the scandal.

"You know the Vicomte?" Meg asked in a breathy voice as she fanned herself with one hand.

"We played together as children. We…we are little more than strangers now."

"He obviously doesn't think of it that way. To think, a Vicomte!" She giggled. "Maybe he will sweep you away to his mansion and make you his Vicomtess."

"Don't be ridiculous Meg!"

The blonde winked, "Remember, we're not like those high society ladies. Our careers depend on a little scandal." She struck a saucy pose and grinned, "Do you think he'll try to bed you?"

"MEG!"

Head thrown back with laughter, Meg pranced away a few steps.

"Oh don't be a prude. Come, we need to dress up for your lunch with the Vicomte."

"We?"

"Mother would kill me if I let you wander off with an unmarried man unescorted. She thinks of you like another daughter."

The pair walked together to the dressing rooms, quietly chattering as young girls are wont to do.

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It was the affair of the season. Ladies of all class and creed were aghast at the behavior of the young Vicomte. Why would he traipse around with a theater trollop? Did he not know that an Opera singer was a fine mistress to keep and bed, but to parade around with her at functions as if she was one of them was utterly uncouth! Many knew of the de Chaney's taste in bedmates—almost every generation of their men took actresses as lovers. Phillipe had been entertaining the Prima Ballerina La Sorelli for a couple years, but he never dared to take her into public on his arm.

Christine heard the rumors and the malicious whispers and did her best to keep her chin high. She was not Raoul's mistress, she was his friend. Him escorting her to a dinner now and then did not make her a whore. They had never even kissed!

It was overwhelming to be at the center of so much negative attention and soon she began to lose focus, her appetite and sleep. She sang flawlessly, it would be an insult to Erik and his teachings for her to do any less, but Christine cringed inwardly at her own lack of soul. When had the passion puttered out? Her songs were crystalline, but shallow. The once fathomless depths of emotion rang hollow.

The audience clapped.

Monsieur Ryer offered nothing but praise.

Carlotta called her a tramp and said she sang like a toad.

No one but her seemed to notice the death of her soul. The death of her music.

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"Marry me, Christine. We can run away to the country, leave all the gossip mongers behind…in a few months we can come back and our relationship will be old news."

"I-I…I don't know what to say."

"Say yes! With your father gone, you need someone to take care of you. A husband who can support and cherish you."

"M-my patron, I told you of him, the man who sponsored me when Papa died…I am not sure he would approve of me marrying. He said that as long as I dedicated myself to music, he would take care of me. If we marry…"

"When we marry you will no longer need to sing. Come now, you're a smart girl. Your patron will be happy to have you off his hands and married. It is a good match. He could not possibly have any complaints about us."

"G-give me some time to think, Raoul, and to ask for his blessing. Please?"

"Anything for you, my love."

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Marriage? How could he contemplate marriage only weeks after they met? True, they knew each other as children, and he was kind, patient and wealthy. He would make a good husband and was everything Papa would have wanted for her save for one thing. With Raoul, there was no music. Ever since Erik abandoned her, it was hard to keep the passion burning, but now, there wasn't even a spark. Raoul was consuming her, same as Erik did for years, but instead of stoking the flames of song which sustaining her, he smothered them. Could she live without music?

A husband and children would certainly fill the void, she supposed. Especially children. She fantasized a large family for years and now was her chance to have one. Christine began to smile at the thought. A baby. They were young, too young some might say, but she would not protest to having a child.

Lost in her daydreams, Christine began to walk to the small chapel adjoining the Opera House. The Angel with the yellow stars for eyes said he would be watching her, even if he did not respond to her prayers. He had not responded in over a year. She doubted her pronouncement would cause that to change. Once she reached the chapel, Christine knelt and began to speak. In her ramblings, she found resolution. She would marry Raoul. It was a good match and unlikely she would find better.

"Thank you for all you have given me, Angel," she said as she rose to her feet. Carefully, Christine pulled off her gloves and then the golden band from her left hand. She admired it for a moment before placing the ring on the altar. "I think this is goodbye."

No voice whispered in her ear. No man emerged from the shadows. No song rang in her heart.

Christine turned on her heel and began to replace her gloves.

A hand closed over her mouth.

Warm breath brushed her neck as a familiar voice hissed in her ear, "'ello luv. Wanderin' about alone again to talk to angels, eh?" Christine struggled against Joseph Burquet's hold. The fly man was a lewd creature, always undressing the girls with his eyes as he horrified them with his tales of the Opera Ghost. Skin like old parchment, he would growl, a gaping hole where there should be a nose. "I heard you are plannin' on marryin' the Vicomte. You must be a good fuck if a titled gent wants sole rights to bedding you. How about givin' ol Joseph here a taste of the goods, hm?"

Screaming against the dirty hand on her mouth, Christine slammed a heel onto the top of Burquet's foot and attempted to elbow him in the ribs, but the man was wearing thick boots and seemed more amused than injured by her strikes. He chuckled and flexed the muscled arm he had looped around Christine's corseted waist. She stilled, unable to breathe.

"Now, keep quiet or I'll gag you," he said, removing the hand he had over her mouth to adjust the front of his pants. Christine gasped in shallowly, her lungs trapped by the whale bone fasteners of her corset. "Good girl." She felt tears sting her eyes as she was pushed into a wall and a hand thrust under her skirts. No one ever touched her there before. Good God, what was he doing? She could feel him tugging on her pantaloons.

A weak scream tore through her throat.

Burquet grunted and slapped her, "Shut up, wench. I'm not doin' nothin' countless others haven't done to you. Don't act like your some saint." His hand went back under her skirts. She began to gag on fear as well as the stench of alcohol and body odor emanating off of her attacker. Christine bucked against him, his grip tightened and her vision blurred. He forced her against the wall again, this time knocking her head against it. His hand touched virgin skin and places Madame Giry explained should never be touched except by one's husband.

There was blood in her mouth.

She heard fabric rip.

Everything was starting to grow dark.

Why was there pain? Why was he putting his finger there? It hurt! Christine tried to scream and struggle, but Burquet held her tight, kept her pinned to the wall. She teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. She closed her eyes. He kept touching her. It still hurt. He muttered something profane and shifted behind her.

Then, he was gone.

Christine inhaled deeply as she collapsed to her knees on the ground. She heard strange noises, as if someone were…choking? Morbidly curious, she peeked through lowered lids to see Burquet writhing against an unseen force, his hands grasping at his throat. He turned red, then purple, then blue, his eyes bulging, his neck swollen. Then, a gruesome SNAP filled the chapel and Burquet fell in a heap.

She stared at him, his body sprawled, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, lifeless and unmoving. A scream swelled in her throat. Christine swallowed, too frighten to even squeak.

A shadow fell over her. The fear numbed, chilling each pulse with calm, leaving her in a partial stupor.

"Angel," Christine breathed.

Yellow stars gleamed from above.

"Christine broke her promise to her Angel of Music," Erik said in a monotone voice. "Look what she made Erik do. He deserved to die, but Erik has not killed in years. Christine's unfaithfulness drove him to this."

"I-I was not unfaithful! Burquet tried to…to…"

"He tried to rape, Christine. He would have never tried to hurt Christine if she was not dallying about with that fop." She winced at the accusation. Was he implying she had done something to deserve this abuse? "Oh, he was a bad man and Erik thought Christine was a good girl. He let Christine have her freedom. Daroga insisted for years that Erik release Christine from his domain. Look what happened when he did. Christine involved herself with an imbecile; traded her soul for foolish notions of love and forced Erik to kill again. Stupid girl. Christine is a stupid, stupid girl."

Erik scowled at her from behind his mask, and after a few seconds of assessment, he lunged forwards and grabbed her arm, pulling Christine roughly to her feet. He stared at her briefly before gripping Christine's hand and jamming something onto her finger. The golden band glittered once again where Raoul offered to put an engagement ring.

"Obviously, Christine cannot be trusted. Erik thought she wanted to be a diva and was devoted to music alone. But no, she threw it away for the fop. A boy who tried to lure Christine into his bed with promises of marriage. The Vicomte could never marry an actress. At best, Christine would become his mistress, a kept woman, until he grew bored and cast her out, ruined."

"Raoul loves me."

A dark sound emerged from behind the mask, a warped parody of laughter, "The boy lusts over Christine. He promises marriage to bed Christine; he fills her foolish head with fantasies of running away, but doesn't tell her that he is leaving in a month. He is to be at sea for a year. Ah, Erik sees Christine is surprised by this. Stupid girl should keep her promises to her Angel, he is the only one who truly loves her. Erik took Christine in when her father died. Erik fed, clothed and educated Christine. True, he hurt her on occasion because Erik is a monster, but Christine should be more grateful. Instead she lies to Erik and tries to run off with a boy when she is sworn to Erik."

He sighed. Normally, Erik would be in a terrible rage at a moment like this. He would yell at and demean her with his venomous tongue and scald her with his fury. Instead, he was eerily calm. With gentleness she was grateful for, Erik embraced Christine and began to stroke her curls.

"Does Christine still love her Angel?"

"Yes."

"Does Christine trust her Angel to do what is best for her?"

Christine nodded. Despite his terrible temper, he did try to do all he could for her.

"On Christine's sixteenth birthday, Erik will have a surprise for her. Will Christine come with her Angel and do as she is told, no questions asked? If she does, Erik will no longer worry about Christine breaking her promises if she does. He will trust her again."

Once again, she nodded. Erik was a strange man. He likely wanted to have her sing with him again. It had been almost two years since they lived in the labyrinth together and thrived on song. Christine felt her heart flutter at the prospect. Beautiful, terrible music. Consuming and mind altering. Erik could control her every thought and feeling with the properly struck chord. Returning to him and his world of night would not be a chore—the company of normal people was overwhelming and tiresome, and sometimes, the sun made Christine's head ache.

"We will resume our lessons," Erik announced, freeing Christine from her wandering thoughts. "You have been without my tutelage too long and it shows. Your posture is slacking, your pitch is flat and for god's sake you sound dead. When you were a child you sang with more passion." She smiled at the odd pull of his lips as she imagined the disgusted expression he wore beneath the mask. It was good when Erik spoke this way; it meant he was relatively calm and reasonable. "We have a fortnight before your birthday. Let us see what damage we can repair in that time. Your voice is what the commoner thinks good but I taught you to be the best, the state of your singing is abysmal compared to what it should be."

"I submit myself to your wisdom and teachings, Maestro."

If Erik noticed the mocking lilt to her voice, he did not comment on it. Instead, he released Christine from his embrace to scowl at the ground. Or more likely, what laid on the ground. She knew she should be more disturbed by the way Erik manipulated the corpse with a few easy twists of his wrists, like a master ventriloquist plucking the strings of a human-sized marionette. She knew she should have run away screaming to the authorities instead of watching impassively as Erik strung his victim from the rafters.

She knew, but logic failed where the heart reigned.

Erik was a dangerous, volatile man with a checkered past. His metal state was unstable, and his health questionable, for he was little more than a skeleton beneath those fine clothes he wore if the brief glimpses of his neck and wrists were anything to gauge by. There was no doubt Erik was a genius even if he liked to play ghost for a superstitious theater and angel for a fatherless girl. Beneath all the idiosyncrasies, most of which were definitively childish in nature like pulling tricks or throwing fits, and the anger he instinctively reacted with when uncomfortable, he was a good man. A brilliant, talented man who cared enough to pluck a newly orphaned Christine from a path veering into a life of poverty and prostitution, and polish her gift until it shinned like crystal.

All he asked in return was her loyalty.

To what extent, she was slowly learning.

If she did not know better, Christine would have entertained the notion that Erik was the jealous sort and did not want her to partake in the company of other human beings, particularly males, but allowed her simply because it was a basic need.

"Oh my god! Sweet merciful mother."

Christine blinked and noticed Joseph Burquet hanging from the ceiling by a noose. Dead. His eyes wide and void, his complexion white. Feminine shrieks accompanied the clamor or worried voices. A trio of ballet rats stood in the doorway of the chapel, completely consumed by their histrionics. A touch out of breath from her early shock and no longer supported by Erik, Christine took a single step backwards away from the body and swooned.

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Murder at the Opera Populaire! the headlines declared.

The Opera Ghost killed Burquet for spreading the horrific details of his face! the ballet rats insisted.

This Ghost must be stopped before he strikes again! the manager announced.

The investigations by the gendarmes found nothing but rats in the catacombs and thus Burquet's death was named a suicide. There was no proof of foul play and the man was a known drunk with gambling debts. Upon discovering how much safer they felt when no longer being feasted on by the predator gaze of the fly man, the ballerinas returned to the stage and their gossip, still wary of the ghost and on a certain level, thankful. As for the manager, rumor had it was planning on retiring soon.

An extortionist who played tricks on the cast in order to make the Opera more profitable was something he could tolerate. A murderer was not. Who knew what the supposed Phantom would do if he skipped his salary?

Christine listened quietly as the chaos flooded around her. Her teacher, guardian and angel had killed a man. A bad man. A man who tried to force himself on Christine, thinking she was a loose woman. While the world condemned Erik, ignorant of the truth, she stood on the gray line of ambiguity between what was right and what was moral. God forbade killing, it was a sin which cast a soul into hell, but was killing always wrong? If it was in the defense of another, was it a sin?

She closed her eyes and knelt in the chapel.

Madame Giry kept approaching her, asking Christine what she knew. Nadir tried to do the same, but his presence in the theater was met with suspicion and he was often shooed away before he could demand any answers. Countless eyes were on her whenever she was on stage—not adoring eyes, but critical, accusing eyes. She knew something. They all knew she knew something. She just wanted everyone to leave her alone!

"You seem troubled, mon petite."

Christine drew in a shuddering breath and nodded, unable to find the right words to express the heaviness resting on her heart. Not only were Madame Giry and Nadir trailing after her, alongside half of Paris it seemed, but Raoul had become adamant about her leaving the Opera House. He arrived the day after the incident to rescue her, insisting that she come stay with him at the de Chaney estate for her own safety, all the while berating the villain who commit such a heinous crime. No one seemed to believe the police reports that Burquet's death was a suicide, and everyone thought that the rising soprano had the missing piece of the puzzle. Perhaps she was even an accomplice!

Three days. She lasted three days before the clamor sent her crashing.

"It used to be so simple," Christine said at last. Tears crept down her cheeks. The horrors she experienced were all collapsing on top of her. "Papa and I would travel across the countryside, never having much aside from the other. When he died, a piece of me chased him to heaven, and you found it and stitched me back together. You taught me to sing, to hope and be happy, to live. Yes, we fought and there were times where I was terribly scared, but you were always so good to me. My Angel of Music. Then you left and I tried to take care of myself, but you took that part of me which followed Papa to heaven. I don't think you meant to break me; I never knew I would break. But I…I feel as if I am dying, Angel. My soul is not my own, it is in the hands of a murderer…a man I know as an Angel, a father, a friend. Oh Erik, I don't know what to do. My mind says I should allow Raoul to take me away, to protect me from you and your violence, because you will no doubt hurt me again. But my heart, it aches at the prospect of abandoning my maestro, the Angel of Music my father sent to give me song."

A heartbeat of silence, and then…

"I will never leave you again, Christine. God long ago abandoned me, but I will never abandon my greatest treasure. My beautiful little soprano. The only one who can give flight to my songs. Hate me if you must, but I will always love you and will do all in my power to keep you. No mere mortal man will ever separate us. Even if you were to run, to hide with that fop, I would find you and bring you back. You are mine, Christine, and I take good care of what is mine. Sing, my angel, sing and know the music I have given you will always provide. As long as you sing and wear my ring, I will protect you and take care of your every need; even kill for you if I must. So sing! Sing!"

Unable to disobey her teacher, Christine sang.

tbc

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A/N: Thank you for reading! We are halfway through this tale. Please review, feedback is very important to me. Even an "I like" or "I dislike" is appreciated, though I love analysis and discussion, so feel free to PM me as well.