Author's Note: The Cameos! Nope, it wasn't Danyal as Reza or Kian as Nadir. While Kian is A Persian, he is not THE Persian. I consider them separate people, though Kian's role is marginally similar.

The piping hot tray of amazingly chocolatey virtual brownies go to Frostycobwebs for guessing 1 of the 2 cameos as Kian Madani!

Dr. Kian Mehri is based (loosely) off of Dr. Kian Madani from Holby City. If you don't already know him from this, once you look him, you will. Yes, I have problems... moving on...

The Second Cameo(The Harder one): we first meet in the Chapter: Dualities as understudy Norris Murphy. Granted in last week's chapter he's just Murphy. He's based off of Bronson Norris Murphy. He has a number of years with Phantom in the U.S. for both PotO and LND. He has a stunning voice that I can listen to on repeat.

Seal Your Fate

When Annette Giry found her practice room devoid of her dancers, she went to their collective dressing room. She barely reached the door when she heard him, spinning another ill-advised tale of the Opera Ghost. Buquet, always there when her presence was absent, telling the girls of the ballet stories to get a rise out of them. Which he took some twisted delight in causing.

"—like yellow parchment, is his skin. A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew…"

Annette squared her shoulders and lifted her chin before striding into the room. Although she swung the door wide open in stern purpose, no one noticed her entrance.

"Curious, isn't it? How the only way to hide such a vile visage is a—"

The sharp blow of her cane against hardwood flooring made all but Buquet jump at the wordless announcement. "I have a practice room, and yet no dancers!" she declared to the girls under her purview.

Every dancer leapt to action and scurried from the dressing room with strings of apologies to her, leaving Annette and Buquet alone. She looked at him in her usual distain as he ran that bit of rope he always carried through his hands. "Those who speak of what they know, find too late that prudent silence is wise."

He sneered as he stepped toward her.

"Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue, or he will burn you with the heat of his eye…"

Buquet came within the bounds of respectable distance, an effort to intimidate her. When that failed, he rose a length of rope to hover before her throat and snapped it taunt.

Annette stood her ground, unflinching and resolute while her hand tightened around the cane.

"I rather be paid," he growled. "As he is surely paying you for your silence with that twenty-thousand francs a month."

"Hmm," she scoffed. "Blackmail the Ghost? You are madder than I thought."

"I'm the mad one?" he bit and rose a hand to backhand her until the rounded head of her cane pressed to the hollow under his chin.

"Do it, and he will come for you," she warned, still unmoved but her grip on the black wood firm.

"Do what?"

"Take your pick, Monsieur."

"Right," he growled and stepped back.

Annette lowered her cane, and stared down the head of the flies as he skulked away.

She waited until he was gone before she turned on her heel to go to her delayed practice with the Corps du Ballet, her exterior stern and unwavering. She betrayed nothing of her inner thoughts.

It was true, she was paid and paid well. For as much as he frightened her, Erik was a strange friend. They encountered each other years ago when they were little more than teenagers. It was a rather lurid fairs that liked to set up outside of Paris, Erik was one of the 'attractions.'

The display made of him was terrible. What happened after… when the crowds were dispersing and the tents closed done, was worse. So much worse. Young and innocent, the stifled and strange noises drew her closer to that tent. There was valid reason why those older and wiser avoided the area. There was a reason why it was set apart the rest of the fair.

The other dancers of her class were elsewhere, and she was the lone lamb. The lone, stupid lamb. Too brave, too curious, too innocent, and extremely lucky.

What she saw when she glimpsed between the canvas flaps was horrific.

Annette was uncertain of what she did that alerted Erik's keeper to her presence. It did matter at all. He caught her arm and dragged her inside and sent her spiraling to the floor of loose weathered boards and worn rugs.

As far as she knew, that was the first life Erik took. Not that she blamed him for it at all. The twisted man deserved the fate Erik dealt, and in doing so, she was likely spared a fate worse than death.

The took flight of that cursed tent together. Words were few between them, and he soon vanished into the wilderness. As much as the whole affair terrified her, she never spoke of it to anyone until Jules, who lifted that weight from her shoulders.

Jules agreed that the man deserved death, and that the tortured boy should not have his freedom taken.

Years later, when she was newly widowed and alone with young daughter, the boy from the fair reappeared as a man. Not just a man, but the Opera Ghost. He remembered her, and she certainly never forgot him.

After her husband Jules died, Annette and Meg were living on the brink as a broken ankle cut her career as a Prima Ballerina short. Envelopes filled with francs began appearing in her pocket, and she was desperate. The francs Erik gave her supported her daughter. It afforded them security, especially until she climbed her way from a crippled concierge for the Palais Garnier to its Ballet Mistress. After which, those francs gave them middle-class comforts while affording Meg attendance at the Paris Conservatory.

Annette helped Erik by keeping his secrets and delivering notes because he helped her, Meg, and now even Christine. The money allowed her to take that poor girl under her wing and safety as well.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Erik did not attend her every performance.

In truth, how could he? Erik L'Chantseur was her tutor of voice and nothing more; which made attendance to minor roles of little worth in the continuation of her training.

Erik the Phantom, made every performance. In his love for her, he was helpless to resist the notes she sang. Christine's near flawless instrument was heaven on his ears. Clear and resonate, with warmth still present. Every time he heard her, her voice prickled his skin and washed him in a stimulatingly pleasant cascade of feeling from his scalp to core. Sometimes the sensation managed to travel down to his toes, on rare occasion.

In the days that followed her debut which illuminated Paris to her glorious sound, lessons resumed. By her request, they no longer held her lessons in a near forgotten corner of the opera. Instead, they resumed in his home beneath the world. With her sudden rise to fame and popularity in addition to Carlotta's palpable jealousy, Christine wanted a retreat into quiet for her focus.

Erik was only too happy to oblige.

After concluding a rather productive session, they settled in for tea which was becoming a pleasant routine. Christine often liked exploring the variety of flavors he tended to blend together. What grew concerning to Erik, that unless they spoke of music and song, Christine seemed more withdrawn. More than what Erik considered typical of her. It was not lost on him that this change started when she had her lunch with the Vicomte. Erik dared not venture into the questions that started plaguing his thoughts as result.

"Erik?" she asked after a comfortable silence since they settled into their respective seats.

Drawing his eyes up from the rim of his cup to meet hers. At the nervous knit of her brow, he rose his own. "Yes, Christine?"

"I… must ask you a question. Even if it seems…odd."

"You do realize to whom you are speaking?"

Christine bowed her head to hide the blush and pinched smile. "I suppose you have a point. But it might seem odd to you regardless."

"Let us test that notion then," he coaxed while setting down his tea.

Bashfulness grew with the color of her cheeks, though she tried to repress it. "If you did…marry," she began slowly. No wonder she was nervous. "…and one of you died, how do you think the remaining spouse should grieve?"

Throw yourself back in time and try to change the future — But Erik could not proclaim that thought aloud.

Remaining silent a moment, Erik pursed his lips thoughtfully, "You were correct, it is an odd question. Though, if you could clarify your meaning…"

She wasted no time. "If months or years passed since the death, what do you think would be proper or expected of the surviving spouse when they deeply loved each other?"

Erik swallowed hard. "It is not a thought I have much considered, in lieu of my situation with the rest of humanity."

"Which would only make your answer more genuine to me."

Discomforted by how close to that other reality this was, Erik met her eyes in his own nervousness. "In that case, I have two answers. Dependent on who died." Christine stiffened at this, but he continued, "If I died first, which would be the ideal, I would want her to continue on with her life in pursuit of her dreams in whatever way she chooses. Though, I would like her to visit my grave with fond thoughts on occasion."

"Of course," Christine spoke without thinking, relaxing back into her seat on the sofa. It only took a breath for her to realize her immediate error when his attention on her became heavy. "As any loving wife should," she quickly added with a sip – gulp – of her tea.

Erik's attention was lingering on her in all its weight.

"Your other answer?" she squeaked. "I assume being a 'if she died first' thought?"

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes…if she died, I would want nothing more than to crawl into that pine box with her and perish too."

"What?" she asked, aghast as his words sunk in, eliciting a wave of tears in her eyes. "Why?"

"Because life for me would hardly be worth living without her anymore. If I were to ever have a wife, she would mean the world to me."

"What if you had children?"

Erik rose from his throne of a chair and gently paced out the sudden build of energy within him and to hide the flux of tears.

Gustave…

"I am hardly father material, Christine. I would have no idea what to do with a child, much less rear one alone. Regardless, the chance I pass on my curse," he motioned to his mask, "is unacceptable to me."

"That is not an answer to my question."

Erik sighed with a shag of his shoulders, hand fluttering over his face. "If my answer is required… as poor a choice it would be for me to sire offspring," though Gustave was proof of the possibility of a healthy unmarred child, "then I would try to live on long enough to see him," mistake! "–or her– into adequate adulthood. Beyond that, I do not know."

"Would a child not mean the world to you too?"

"Loving a child is different from raising one. I do not much care for children, though if the child is my own or strictly from my wife from a prior relationship… that would be the exception. I am hardly suitable parent material. Most parents had at least one loving caregiver who gave a damn. I lack that luxury."

Christine sat in a mixture of emotions. Relief and sadness intermingling, all the while Erik continued a mild pacing. "When Mama died, Papa lived for me."

Erik stilled and turned to her, collapsing his hands behind the natural curve of his spine.

"When Professor Valérius died," she went on, "Madame Valérius died within months of him. Madame Giry…lived on when her husband died for Meg…" she trailed off in a despairing whisper. "Is that what proper love is? To give up on life when the one you love dies?"

"…Christine?"

"I wouldn't want you to die. I wouldn't want you to give up on life even if there are not children…"

"Christine…" he repeated her name. Dropping his hands to his sides, Erik went to kneel before her and a hesitant hand coming to rest over hers nestled on her lap.

She looked to him with reddening eyes of her crestfallen face, wet in shedding tears. "I would want you to find a reason for living again."

Erik's thumb petted her knuckles in his fidgety way as he struggled to soothe her and keep himself calm at the nature of their discussion. "Christine," he uttered her name for the third time, which silenced her. "My world view is a corrupted one. What may work for one may not be of comfort to another," he slowly folded her hand into both of his, still rubbing her knuckles. So warm. "I know well that there is little else for me if the one woman who could find me worthy of her love, dies. It would have taken the better part of forty-years to finally discover what it is like to be loved, much less cared for."

A sad smile creased her face now, her free hand lifted to the cool skin of his unmasked cheek.

Erik trembled at her touch, pressing his cheek further into the warmth. Long bony fingers clutched tighter around the tiny hand with wrapped within his grasp. "My view here only pertains to me, Christine. You… you should find new love, new happiness, if your husband dies first. You must do what is right for you… and not what others think you should do in your grief. They will only make you miserable if you are not happy in conformity."

Christine leaned forward until her forehead touched his, much as he had done on the roof of the opera.

A gasp escaped him at the gesture, and the deeper implication it held for him. As though to emphasize her meaning, Christine slid off the sofa until there were both on their knees before the other.

"You deserve love, Erik," she whispered, so close now their noses brushed. That delicate hand fell to cradle the base of his skull. "I still find myself wondering why you care for me as you claim. It scares me. Change…scares me."

"Fear can be a good thing," Erik whispered, tilting his head a little to the side as his eyes locked onto hers.

"Can it?" she was not shying away as she tilted her head.

"It can," he breathed.

The moment was near; within reach of claiming by proximity alone. Just as either or – both could claim the moment, Christine pulled away with her hand dropping from his face as her weight shifted from her knees to settle on her ankles beneath her.

Disappointment and stunned feelings were not adequate descriptors of the emotion that fell upon Erik in her sudden withdrawal. His jaw slackened as he blinked rapidly in processing just what happened.

"Now, you know what it feels like," Christine spoke with a small smile.

Erik blinked again while settling on to his ankles too, still taken aback and unsure of his own reaction. It was fair for her to deny him, just in much the same fashion as he had denied her on that roof. Though, at least he did not sense a hint of malefic intent. He hoped.

In finding the humor of the moment, Erik swallowed hard. "Hmm, yes. Touché, my dear. Well done," he said with a low chuckle that must have sounded forced.

Christine's hand shot back to his cheek. "I do care for you, Erik. But I would rather be sure of myself and my feelings first."

Erik pressed his cheek into her hand again, "I understand."

She gave a smile filled with such warmth that it lifted Erik's spirits as her hand slowly slid from his cheek to rest on his shoulder. "I find your company invaluable and soothing in ways I cannot put into words. Only that, I can be myself without some worry that you would somehow think less of me."

"Never," he agreed softly with a small shake at of his head at the mere idea. If either of them was to harbor such a thought, it was him trying not to make such a mistake that would risk her thinking less of him. He was below her already, falling lower was not an option for him.

Shifting closer, Christine brought her other hand up to rest upon the cool porcelain of his mask. The pads of her fingertips found the edge of it while her blue gems met his gaze.

With his heart starting to pound in his chest and his struggle to silence the devil whispering insecurities, Erik sought understanding of her intent. Shutting his eyes tight and in the slightest of motions, he tilted his head forward and presented his mask.

Those delicate hands were gentle in their caress of each side of his face on make and skin. Then slow fingers pressed more to the edge of his mask, pausing for several seconds before she lifted the mask away. It was by instinct that Erik flinched; the result of a lifetime filled with negative reactions whenever the mask came off by another's hand. Even in this moment with Christine being so tender, Erik fought the want to take flight.

It took time where he dared not open his eyes before Christine began tracing her fingers over the twists of his curse. She explored the protrusions of his sunken eye socket in a complete orbit before sliding over the uneven cheekbone. Her thumb went down the ridges what descended his cheek, above the valleys.

Erik gasped and shivered under her touch, but did not pull away. Not even when moisture began leaking from tightly closed lids.

"You avoided the answer before…" she whispered as she wiped his tears. "When I asked you if any of it hurt." She framed his face in her hands in a gentle coax to turn him to her.

A trembling hand came to rest over hers while she cupped his gnarled cheek, he still did not open his eyes. Rather than speaking, his mouth was too dry for words, Erik guided her touch to the tender scars left by a scolding knife in his youth. It was a carved hollow that sat back from the withered ravines on the front of his cheek and before the jaw bone that connected to the rest of his skull. There, it was sensitive to touch. On occasion, what Erik assumed to be a damaged nerve just beneath the surface, would flare out in a tree of pain.

Next, Erik guided her hand to the crater on the side of his head, a gash marking a narrow escape from death when his residence in Turkey was set ablaze with him locked inside. It was a mixture of burns and a beam strike to his skull that left a permanent dent and removal of skin.

Somehow as he healed, a thin layer of skin managed to stretch over and cover the exposed bone, webbed in cracks that had since fused together.

"All the time?" she asked, drawing away his wig now to better inspect the scars hidden beneath.

"No," he rasped on a dry tongue. Erik's hand guided her fingers still, pressing them to the hollow. "I feel little here, but this is more inclined to flare up," he brushed against the rim of the scarring. Then he dropped back down to the scar with the sensitive nerve on his cheek at the back of his jawline. "There is a nerve that grows…agitated."

"What happens?"

"Have you…ever seen a tree struck by lightning?"

She said nothing, but Erik sensed a nod. Still not daring to open his eyes lest this dream end.

"Like that, only the currents web over my face over than the branches of that tree."

"These are scars?"

"Yes."

"Show me what else are scars…" the warmth her breath so near made him shiver.

His hand guided her back to the front of his cheek that was ridges and ravines that made it look as though his face was melting off bone. Then, he went to the gashes on his noses that some of the small holes breached the airway.

"What…who?"

"I was an exhibition… The man who owned me did not think I was ugly enough."

"Oh, Erik…" her voice was breaking, one hand now raking through his thin wisps of dark brown hair.

Erik shivered as her touch made his scalp and body tingle for her.

Then, Christine pressed her forehead to his again. It only lasted a moment and her soft lips gave him the greatest of gifts upon his forehead, then again on his ravaged cheek.

A choked sobbed escaped him now, still unable to meet her gaze. His heart would not be able to handle whatever may be there and keep any sense of rational thought. But Erik allowed himself to melt and sink down until his head rested on her lap with his cursed visage pressed to her skirts.

Christine brought her arms around him the best she could in their present position, which was not much. Fingers continued stroking his thin hair and down his back, before she draped herself over him, her head between shoulder blades and her touch tracing the bumps of his vertebrae. "What kind of life, have you known?" she asked, so quiet that he almost did not hear.

Erik clutched her dress at her hips, soaking in every bit of affection she gave.

Author's Note: So much to unpack in all of this. Some of it added today during Editing because I can't help myself and Annette was wanting adjustments to backstory. What did you notice? Seriously let me know, comments are food to me. It helps me tune my writing, and characterizations. I am always wanting to improve.