Chapter 4: Angel of Music

Deep underneath the Palais Garnier, water dripped from the walls of a labyrinth, splashing into a lake.

It was quiet as a tomb.

Until a candlelight flickered in the distance and bounced off the cellar wall, a gondola creeping closer to a thin inlet, hidden just out of view of a directly straight path the lake continued in, fading into darkness.

Placing the oar on an outstretched dock, a cloaked figure tied the gondola with a rope around a post, blowing out the candle that lit the lantern in the front, concealing it from sight.

The figure strode down the dock into a maze of twists and turns until it approached double doors of iron, whose pattern wove in spirals and fleur de lis. Placing a key into the lock, the door clicked and swung open, revealing a house on an island, separated from the door by a lake.

Crossing the bridge over the water, the figure moved into the candlelight of a foyer, removing its hat, cape, and gloves and depositing them into a coat closet.

The figure paced down a corridor, making a sharp left, where it came across a wooden door. Twisting the knob, its presence invaded the room and the door was swiftly shut. It moved to the corner of the room, where it pulled out a stool from under a grand piano, and the figure seated itself.

Long fingers hovered over the ivory keys, about to make contact with them until a loud rapping sound reverberated from the foyer. The figure growled under its breath and harshly pushed itself away from the instrument, leaving the music room.

Unlocking the foyer door, the figure grunted, "Once again you've proven to me you have the most impeccable time, Daroga", it uttered sarcastically.

The middle eastern man raised an eye and shrugged his shoulders shamelessly. "I thought you'd be quite happy to see me, Erik, it's been a while".

"Clearly not long enough". Erik stepped to the side and the Daroga brushed past him. Erik closed the door. "What business brings you here?"

He held up a libretto, carefully rolled up and tied with string. "Ensuring the opera ghost is satisfied with the next opera that shall begin in several weeks' time," he said, handing it to Erik who already had his hand held out.

Tossing the string aside, Le roi de Lahore was printed in a large font on the front. Flipping over the sheet music within, he eyed the notes carefully before nodding.

"This will do. The copies of the script will arrive tomorrow?"

"As per your instructions". He stood there, hands clasped in front of him, his left foot tapping on the ground.

Erik ground his teeth. "I'd offer you tea, but I wager you have better places to be than-" he gestured with his arms, "this place".

He rolled his eyes at the snide remark. "On the contrary, I shall be here for the remainder of the day. Madame Giry and I are to meet tonight to discuss business".

Erik led him to the parlor and they took a seat in armchairs across from one another. The Daroga rested his hands on the armrest as Erik swung a leg over his other.

"Is she not disposable at the current moment?"

The man shook his head tiredly. Even in the candlelight of the room, it was easy for Erik to see the dark rings that sat under his eyes. He lifted a hand to rub underneath his eyes. "Out of town, I'm afraid. A funeral of a dear friend. She is escorting his only child back here to train in that, from what she has told me. Poor child", a crestfallen look settled on his features.

Erik had made himself known to Madame Giry when he had seen her stand her ground against Monsieur LeFevre, offering her money in exchange for delivering his correspondences. The money she would never be paid as the ballet mistress. And she had agreed, swearing secrecy. Tadame was a smart woman.

He had Nadir keep tabs on who worked at the opera, and Erik would do his fair share when he made his rounds, visiting his box and collecting post, f there was any to be found.

"Madame Giry is a selfless woman, but often too lenient for her wood".

Nadir nodded, but added, "I hold her in high regard, taking in girls who seek passion in dancing. But this girl is an orphan now if I've heard correctly".

Erik hunched forward in his seat. "No relation I presume?"

"The daughter of Gustave Daaé, a Swedish violinist. His only child. Christine, I believe it is". Nadir contemplated the last part out loud.

Nadir had been in a conversation with Madame Giry when she received the letter. They had been sitting in her office when there was a knock on the door, and a piece of mail slipped underneath the crack of the door. Upon opening it, Madame Giry had cut the conversation short with a brief explanation and had immediately after, departed from the room, leaving Nadir to process the news.

Nadir looked up to a cup of tea in front of his face, Erik looking off to the side.

Erik waited for a few moments. "Take the guest room upstairs. For once I may say you resemble death more than I do. Only today". Erik watched as Nadir's eyes flickered to his mask for a fraction of a second before humbly accepting the tea from his hands.

"Erik, you must know that your face has never mattered to me. You may compare your face to death, but that should not make you condemn yourself to this. You are a talented man Erik, and anyone who cannot look past what is on the outside is a fool".

Erik scoffed, beginning to pace the room. A hand drew itself over his mask self-consciously "This face condemned me to this life. Anyone who has ever beheld a vision of this face has recoiled in horror. A face such as this, is exactly why I shall never leave this place. This will be my tomb".

Nadir stood abruptly, and Erik faced him, a scowl on his face. "You are a fool, Erik. You have talents people could only dream of, and yet you waste them rotting away down here. Come stay a day or two with me, and I'll show you-"

"Enough Daroga! I'll not have you criticize the choices I've made to save myself from an uncompassionate world, to save people from this-" Erik tore the mask from his face, clutching it tightly in hand.

He moved closer to Nadir, who did not flinch as Erk was mere inches from his face. "This face which has cost me everything! A face that shall never be accepted nor loved! The hellspawn demon that I am! This mask I am forced to wear to hide this abhorrent face" He sobbed with exasperation.

"I shall never belong to the world you do. My fate has been decided for me from the moment my mother first laid eyes on this visage, this… monster, I shall always be a monster" Erik seethed between his teeth, transfixing his gaze away from Nadir, who could only sigh.

Erik turned and slipped his mask firmly into place and he heard Nadir speak up from behind him. "If people understood you as lasI do, no one would see you as a monster. I am sorry Erik".

"I don't want your pity".

"It is not pity. You have chosen your path. You have chosen to let your face define you. I merely wish I could find a way to help you", he breathed, moving towards Erik to place a hand on his shoulder. Erik flinched away at the approach, and Nadir's hand fell back to rest at his side, feeling utterly helpless.

"I do not need your help nor do I want your help". Erik moved to leave the room, his anger creating a melody in his mind. He had to write it down before it made its way from his conscious mind.

"I require a favor from you". The tone of Nadir's voice halted him in his tracks, and Erik turned his head slightly.

"When Madame Giry arrives with Christine, I want you to call out to her. I do not expect a conversation, God forbid you would ever start one, but a welcome. No matter how much you lament and despair down here, that young woman has lost everything too".

"Good day Daroga." Erik left for the music room, leaving Nadir to his thoughts.

Hours flew by as Erik's fingers expertly raged on the piano, a cacophony of sounds flooding the music room. He winced as the discord of sounds harshly mixed, an ugly masterpiece.

Erik was livid. His body shook as his fingers continued to meet the keys. Nadir may not have said it, but he knew it was pity. It was always pity. Pity for a life he would never have. Pity for his eternal loneliness. Pity for the artistic work he created that would never see the light of day. Pity for the monstrous face he was born with.

Pity for the young woman, Christine, who had lost everything she loved. The person she loved.

Damn him! Damn that Daroga for requesting such an absurdly compassionate gesture! A gesture of pity was more like it. But he had another feeling about why he was making such a request.

His son, Reza.

Nadir had lost his wife the day their child came into the world, and he had grieved her. Then in a cruel twist of fate, his son had come down with an incurable condition only months after his birth.

Despite not having the means to care for him, he did all that was possible. But it was not enough.

And Reza passed away on Christmas Day at the young age of seven.

And Nadir was the only person who grieved him. He had no family and no close friends. Nothing.

Although he knew he was not a compassionate man, he provided what consolation he could. But it was not enough.

No amount of consolation would bring back his dead son.

Erik lifted his hands from the piano keys and his head fell into his palms, knowing what he must do.

He would do this for Reza. For Nadir.

Maybe this small act could earn him a sliver of redemption for his damned soul.

The grand foyer was bustling with patrons flocking to the last night Faust was to be performed. Erik cringed at the disorder as people were all crammed together to make their way into the auditorium. He had small moveable slots in the walls he could push to get a full view of the grand staircase and windows.

Erik mentally fumed. This was so very unlike him, to go out of his way to do this for someone who would never meet him. Never lay her eyes on him.

'This is pointless' He thought.

He could make out a standard black carriage come to a steady halt out front. Madame Giry was the first to step out, taking a deep breath before making her way to the other side, where the door opened.

And then she stepped out.

Her hair came down in deep brown ringlets and the sinking sun highlighted the red tint entwined in her hair. Her skin was pale, highlighting the emerald of her eyes while her cheeks held a tint of color to them. She donned a black morning dress with a neckline that went just above her bosom. The draped sleeves hung off her elbows and her skirt flared out around her.

Erik would not deny that even in a mourning dress, she was beautiful.

Madame Giry made her way up the stairs and beckoned to Christine, who began to follow only to turn back, returning seconds later with a violin case in hand.

"The daughter of Gustave Daaé, a Swedish violinist", Erik recalled Nadir's words. It must've been her father's. For a moment, he wondered if she played as well.

Judging by her expression, she was in awe as she looked around the outside of the structure. Slowly she made her way up the stairs and into the toehold of the theater doors. A gust of wind whipped at her hair and he hesitated for a moment.

And then he tentatively called out to her.

"Christine…. Christine"

Christine looked all around her, to find nothing. The corner of Erik's lip rose.

Madame Giry was quick to draw her attention back and guide her to what he assumed would be her room, and she scurried after the older woman.

His obligation fulfilled was, he closed the latch and turned, descending back into the underworld.

As Erik strode over the bridge, he saw Nadir exit the front door, turning around to see him. Nadir jumped slightly, placing a hand over his heart. Erik stopped in front of him.

"Madame Giry is back, should you wish to pay her the promised visit". Erik opened the door, about to walk in when Nadir put a hand on the door frame.

Nadir's eyes cast down to the ground, but he didn't release his grip. "Is it done?" He questioned.

"I have done what you asked", and Erik swore he could hear him chant a prayer under his breath. He moved the hand from the door frame to Erik's shoulder, and he tensed in response.

"Thank you, dear friend. It means more to me than you could ever know. She wasn't scared, was she?" He asked in a concerned voice.

Erik shook his head. "No, in fact, she seemed quite perplexed, yet intrigued".

A bored expression crossed his face, and he shifted his body to lean against the door. "Was it the reaction you were expecting?"

"As the opera ghost? Certainly not. It is my I must them, not intrigue them". Erik scoffed, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossing over his chest.

Nadir waved his arm out to the side, and Erik moved a hand to his temple. "And? Tell me more. What was she like?"

Erik eyed Nadir, becoming increasingly annoyed by the bombardment of questions. "Like any other girl in the corps de ballet. She walked in holding a violin case, which I could only guess was her father's, where are you going with this? I don't have the patience to do this all day".

Nadir released his hold on the door frame and held his hands up in surrender. "My apologies. I just wished to know if she appeared all right, a reasonable cause for concern".

"Well if you are so concerned about her, why don't you just approach her for yourself instead of sending me in your place?"

"Do you recall the words "take the guest room upstairs"?" Erik rolled his eyes and walked into the house, shutting the door in Nadir's face.

Nadir laughed, and Erik could hear him up until he closed the door behind him in the music room.

Two days passed and Nadir had not returned, although that came as no surprise to Erik as Nadir was a frequent traveler. His adventures never ventured far, never lasted long and he never stayed longer than a week.

Erik had spent those days locking himself in his music room, forcing his mind to conjure up a melody, any melody. And nothing came to him. The seemingly endless hours he spent between instruments driving drove the point of madness.

The music had always called to Erik. In his youngest years, he remembered spending in one room, composing music and writing it down on the burlap sack he was forced to wear over his head, by his mother.

The mother who despised.

In the end, he always blamed her. Always her.

And yet he wondered if he would ever have had the talents he had now if she had shown him even an ounce of compassion. Of love.

Erik thought of that word as often as he thought himself a monster. He loved music, composing, sculpting, and bringing his creations to life.

But he was a monster for having half a twisted face. He was a monster because of his violent bouts of anger.

Erik hated himself because he could never accept the monster. He could never love the monster.

No one would or could ever love a monster.

After two days of musical restlessness, Erik bathed and dressed, and headed out on his daily rounds.

Beginning with box five.

He wove his way through tunnels in the walls, his eyes adjusting to the darkness that welcomed him. He approached a double double-sided etching a key from his pocket and slipping into a groove on the wall adjacent to it, unlocking it. The mirror opened soundlessly and looked at the slat in the side of the mirror, which was empty.

Erik went to close the mirror when a corner of white stood out to him amongst the red carpeting in the box. Reaching down, he plucked the letter off the ground and swiftly shut the mirror. The auditorium was still pitched in darkness, the staff likely having not awakened as of yet.

A chair was kept just inside the mirror, intended for the box to be empty so he would not have to look past patrons as he watched from behind the mirror. Taking a seat, Erik flipped the envelope over, cursive handwriting spelled in the words of Monsieur le Fantôme.

The envelope was sealed with a wax seal with the initials MG. Erik slipped a finger under the side and peeled it open.

And much to his surprise, the letter was not from Madame Giry.

Dear Opera Ghost.

Joseph Buquet has become a pain in the ass, well is and had been. Would you kindly find a way to get him fired since aman (Madame Giry) has not yet managed to? I fear? that he will make another attempt on one of us, should he continue to be let off the hook.

Madame Giry cares more for the staff than Monsieur LeFevre. If there is any way you could somehow… frighten him into doing better towards us, it would be greatly appreciated.

Also, if you would so kindly send a reply, it would be decent evidence to show my newest friend that you do whether you do or not, I shall prove to her that you are, in fact, real.

Your friendly neighborhood CDBM (corps de ballet members),

Meg Giry & Christine Daaé

Erik let his jaw drop at the audacity of the letters' contents. The letter all but screamed 'propriety be damned!', and was written by the two women who had overindulged in spirits.

Little Giry and Christine Daaé.

But the letter spoke lengths. It spoke the truth. It seemed Buquet needed some time away from the theater… As if one warning wasn't enough, he now seemed to attempt a girl who had been there all but two days.

He was beginning to agree with Nadir. This young woman's life changed in an instant from the moment her father died to getting better assaulted within his domain. She was innocent in all of this.

The shocking realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He was lacking in his responsibilities. The responsibility lies within the realm of music.

As for Monsieur LeFevre, it seemed a letter was well overdue.

Erik does not take orders from anyone. But they shall all be damned should the theater continue to go unchecked. This opera house was his, and he was not about to let it fall to shambles. He would not fail Christine Daaé.

Erik had descended to his home to write a suggestive letter to Monsieur LeFevre informing him that Joseph Buquet would be kept out of commission until further notice, or otherwise face significant consequences. He had not forgotten to mention that the treatment of his staff was not going unnoticed and that he would be keeping a careful eye on his person. He once again reminded him of how his theater was to be run, should he forget his place.

Erik then went in search of something he had kept in his possession for as long as he could remember. Something he believed he would eventually use.

But he no longer wanted it, nor needed it.

His search came to a close as he spotted the ring he had been searching for in a hidden compartment drawer he had carved into the underside of his piano. Slipping the ring on his finger, he quickly made his way to the men's dormitories.

His footsteps were quiet and stealthy as he looked down from above at the sleeping men, searching for Buquet. It was not hard to locate him as the sight of emptied bottles surrounded the man's bed. On the nightstand next to him sat a half-filled bottle.

Erik scaled inside the wall and pulled away a wooden board from the ceiling above his nightstand and slid the ring off his finger. He flicked open a latch on the side of his ring and inspected the content, plucking it out of its spot and twisting it in his gloved fingers.

And with expert aim, the cyanide pill dissolved into Joseph Buquet's liquor.

After ensuring Buquet did, in fact, drink the liquor, he had deposited Monsieur LeFevre's letter in the mail slot of box five as Madame Giry wrapped up her rehearsals. As she walked away, the ballet girls rushed to the center stage and huddled in close, whispering and laughing together.

And then he saw her.

Christine watched as the Little Giry went from her side to the other ballet girls, leaving her alone by the curtain. It seemed, however, that Christine did not want to be a part of the conversation as she spun on her heel and left the stage.

And then there was a pull in his chest. An incessant pull that voicelessly screamed at him to follow her. Just to make sure she was alright.

He eventually found her in the chapel, sitting on her knees with her hands clasped in front of her in prayer. She spoke to her father about his departure with death and befriending the Little Giry.

From her discussion, he discovered that she was from Calais, and the memories of music she had shared with him, and how he had left her everything and Madame Giry kept the will in her safe.

The conversation became even more interesting as she began talking about drunkenly writing a letter with Little Giry to the opera ghost after she had told her the legends and rumors that had spread amongst the staff, courtesy of the corps de ballet.

"I can believe in angels, father. But I do not think I can bring myself to believe in a ghost".

Her confession made him stagger where he stood, and he placed a gloved hand on the wall opposite of the one he leaned on, his heart lurching in his chest.

And for the first time in his life, he wished he was not an opera ghost. Perhaps if he had been born without a deformity, he could've been standing right next to her, assuring her that everything would turn out just as it was supposed to.

But if he had not been deformed, he certainly wouldn't be where he was today, at that very moment.

A draft had made its way into the room, the lit candles beginning to flicker. He watched as she stood to shut the painted glass window, which had somehow managed to open by itself. He made a mental note to himself that he must check the lock on it later.

Another breeze caught in her curls and she gazed around, her eyes wide in curiosity.

"Father? Is that you?"

His breath hitched in his throat as she closed the window, gazing around the room in hopes that maybe he would somehow appear. Her emerald eyes glittered with hope, but as she realized that no one was near her, the shine in her eyes began to diminish. A feeling almost like desperation held him in a tight grip, and he felt his instincts take over, once again letting her name cross his lips.

"Christine…. Christine"

"Is this the voice of the angel of music you promised me?"

Her father promised her an angel of music. And suddenly there seemed to be a million thoughts at once.

An angel of music.

She believed his voice was that of an angel of music her father had promised her.

Erik leaned forward, his head resting lightly on the brick wall, his eyes closed. Even as the monster he was, he had morals. He could not continue to deceive her if that is what he could even call it.

The room was silent for several more minutes before her soft voice broke it.

"Father, I hope you will send me an angel of music soon. My seventeenth birthday draws closer. Maybe, perhaps by then my angel will reveal themselves. I love you father. With everything I have".

Christine stood, blowing out the candle, and in a moment of unknown desperation he called to her once more.

"Christine…. Christine".

There was no explanation he could provide himself to explain why he called her name except intrigue.

And then she was gone, leaving Erik to his thoughts.

Erik went on his final rounds for the day as he ensured Joseph Buquet was g much to his delighted relief, his bed had been stripped down and the area spotless of the bottles that had been scattered on the floor around it just that morning.

With a satisfied nod, he made his way through the walls in the direction of Madame Giry's office for confirmation that his letter was delivered to Monsieur LeFevre. As he began to pass the corps de ballet's dormitories, he was once again in deep thought about the angel of music. If she believed his voice to be one of her angels, what would that leave him to do?

He prepared to call out to headmistresses when a violin sounded through the hall sits's slow melody instilling a kind of sadness. The person who was playing this instrument was not perfect, but he could feel all the emotions through the strings the bow met. Erik all but raced to the sound of the violin, and through a small crack in the wall, he could make out her figure sitting on a bed, the violin perched on her shoulder.

And then he heard her sing, which rang out as clear as the summer night sky. Erik's heart caught in his chest and he held his breath as she began to sing out a melody.

Oh ange de la musique!

Apparate before us as we unify in song

Thou only appear for the glory of sound

Ange de la musique come to our ground

Oh, Angel of music, you must be found!

Christine played the song passionately as she ended the song on vibrato, and became surprised when people began clapping around her, tossing her compliments.

Her voice was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

Little Giry piped up and moved to stand next to her on the bed, giving her even more compliments, going as far as to say that her father would be smiling down from Heaven. Erik believed that if God was truly real, he would be smiling down at her as well, with a voice like that….

"...You must tell me though, what is an angel of music? You have mentioned that term several times. Is it like my story about the opera ghost?"

Christine shook her head. "An angel of music, as my father told me, is an entity, who comes down from the seat of sweet music's throne to guide those of us who devote our lives to an ethereal journey of music. Nothing like this "Phantom of the Opera" I'm afraid".

A grin made its way across Erik's face, and he lifted a hand to cover it in brief humor

Little Giry had moved back to her bed, appearing to be in thought. "Do you believe an angel of music shall come for you?"

"My father said, "When I am in Heaven child, I shall send the angel of music to you". I just know they'll come one day. I'm sure of it". Christine told her as she climbed into bed.

"Well with a voice like yours, I do hope your angel comes soon. God knows Carlotta must be sacked before more innocent people are sent away without an outcome". Little Giry replied before she blew out the candle in the room.

Erik quickly abandoned the thought of visiting the Older Giry's office and instead traveled back into the underworld, his questions finally answered.

There was no doubt in his mind that Christine Daaé was a disciple of music with an ethereal voice. As if God himself had bestowed upon her the greatest gift, even worthier than mankind.

Her father had promised to send her an angel of music, and he had revealed himself to her. He had called out to her and she searched for him. The gears in his mind turned, clicking together like placing the last piece of a puzzle in its place.

There was intrigue, with a pull so strong it confused him. And yet, there wasn't a sign that was anymore clear.

He would become her angel of music as she had now become his.

Erik had awoken the next day with no traces of tiredness. His mind had come alive with the memories of her angelic voice accompanying the soft melody that she played from the violin. Her voice was pure and unearthly, unlike anything he had heard before.

Christine had no idea how special she was.

Checking the time, he shot out of his bed as he realized it was nearly past noon. Bathing quickly, he dressed for the day and left to do his rounds.

As Erik neared closer to the auditorium, he could hear the orchestra rehearsing a piece from act three, and through the mirror in box five, he could see the corps de ballet practicing with them. The young women lept and soared across the stage, their limbs flowing gracefully around them.

As the pace grew faster in the music, their movements did as well until they were all joined in the center stage, fanning themselves with palm leaves. The orchestra concluded, and they scurried off behind the curtains to the barre in preparation for the next piece.

Except for Christine who began to dance as if the music was still playing. As far as he was aware, there were no solo dances in Le roi de Lahore. His suspicions were confirmed as the corps de ballet members stared at him with mirror emotions.

Erik could only think about how she certainly seemed to have a knack for attracting attention to herself. First with her voice and now with her impromptu dance.

It was almost as if the way her body led her was telling a story. Her jumps looked as if they were the most joyous moments in her life and her arabesques representrepresenteding to explore. It was clear that she was not a seasoned dancer, especially with a lack of pointe shoes, but this side,e of her ventured to a place she longed to be.

Christine's body moved close to the end of the stage and Erik's heart stopped in his chest, realizing that her eyes were closed. He could see from the corner of his eyes as Madame Giry began to approach her, an arm out in concern. In the orchestra pit, Monsieur Reyer moved his stand aside and held his arms out, prepared to catch her.

Erik reached out to her as her body pivoted just feet from the orchestra pit.

"Christine…. Christine"

He watched as her eyes shot open, looking around in confusion. Erik sighed deeply, hoping this was not and would not be a common occurrence of hers. Madame Giry guided the girl off to the side of the stage, away from the corps de ballet, and Erik left to continue his work.

After he had returned, Erik spent the evening in his music room, creating sheets upon sheets of music. For so many years he had envisioned his torture, his pain, and his dreams of passion. And he had spent so many of those moments frustrated on how to go on. And so he created an opera out of his pains, his longings.

Don Juan Triumphant.

An opera devoted to all he wished he could've had and been. A monster writing a passionate love story of a handsome man sweeping a woman off her feet and seducing her.

Christine's voice haunted him and inspired him.

Tonight, her angel of music would begin his work.

Erik continued to compose until past midnight when everyone would be sound asleep. His body shook with nerves and anticipation. It was but two days ago that he presented his life, his entire being, throwing himself into his work with a blank mind, unable to put a pen to paper.

But now…now he had her. His source of inspiration. His muse. His salvation. His angel of music.

Erik stood from his piano and left the room, stopping in the foyer to slip on his cloak, gloves, and fedora. Placing one hand on his mask and the other on the back of his head, he ensured it was securely in place. He had no intention of allowing Christine to see him. He would stay hidden within the walls.

If she were to ever see his face, his mask, she would run as far as her legs could take her and further. Or perhaps morbid curiosity would take over, and she would scream at the sight of him. The face of death he had been born with. The horrid face which early cost him his life everywhere he went. The face that condemned him to a damned life.

And yet this face had led him to her.

His feet carried him to the crack in the wall, where he could see he was asleep in her bed lying on her side. Her curls framed her delicate features and her lips were slightly parted, her side rising and falling with each breath she took.

"Christine…. Christine"

He called to her softly, his voice leaving his lips like a whisper.

Christine's form began to rouse and she sat up in her bed, looking over to the Little Giry. Seeing nothing, she went to place her head upon her pillow once more, and he beckoned to her once again.

"Christine…. Christine"

This effectively had her shooting off her bed, careful not to wake the sleeping girl opposite of her. Erik looked away as she slipped out from under the covers and tied the sash of her robe. She exited the room.

Erik moved within the walls, his eyes following her figure as she searched for him.

"Christine…. Christine"

He walked backward and stared as she began to follow the sound of his voice, her slippered feet lightly pattered against the floor. As she walked closer to him, the moonlight left her features as she moved into the shadows.

"Christine…. Christine"

He called to her as he descended the stairs he created within the walls, and she followed him down the downward spiral staircase, the front of her robe clutched in her hands. The moment her toes met the ground floor he beckoned her to follow him.

"I am your angel of music….Come to me angel of music…"

He led her straight in the direction of the chapel. The place she had begged her father to send her angel of music.

And now he was here. It was completely ironic. He, who saw himself as the devil's spawn, undertaken the disguise of an angel.

"I am your angel of music….Come to me angel of music…"

How the tables had turned on him, and yet here he was. From the chapel walls, he could see her shadow wind down the stairs. It took so much in him to keep his voice from wavering in a mix of nerves, anxiety, and excitement.

"I am your angel of music….Come to me angel of music…"

And then there she stood, right in front of him, her earthly green eyes glittering in the moonlight that flooded the holy room. She looked so much like a walking angel in the pure white robe that outlined her figure that he could envision a halo hanging above her head.

"Sing for me…. My angel of music!"

He coaxed her. His heart raced in his chest as she inhaled deeply, her eyes closing at his command.

And then he knew nothing but his angel's voice.

Hi, Lovelies! I genuinely loved writing this chapter! This story will primarily take place from Christine's POV, but we'll see some of Erik too! The way I write Erik will take practice, as he can be a complicated character to write, but the way I plan to write him is with morals, needs, and wants and make his character more human, not just the monster he sees himself as.

Feel free to leave a review and let me know what you think thus far! Reading them always makes my day so much better! Until next time!

Your Obedient Servant-

Emma51020