A/N: Okay! So, we are on the second part of "Music of the Night". Remember that "Notes" never happened – it never needed to happen because of Christine's note to Emilie (who will make her appearance in the next chapter...hehe). Raoul walked by Christine (before "Think of Me") just like in the movie, and he noticed her after, but never got the chance to speak to her, as she was gone from her dressing room. Unfortunately, he may be harder to get rid of than you might think...

There are so many things I think would have been explored between these two in his home.

Oh, and one more thing – what if Carlotta never came back, and Christine stays Prima-Donna? How will she handle this new found power? (I've always wondered this...)

Anyways, please enjoy, this is a rather long one! Drop a comment if you are loving it – they make my entire week!

...

Spirit of my Spirit

Writing the note to Emilie proved to be more difficult than Christine had thought it would be. As she addressed the letter, she felt her insides flame up like a fire stoked with an iron rod...even just writing the name Emilie made her sick; replacing the old, worn, familiar feelings of a mother-figure that had once been her stronghold. But this woman had stolen Erik from somewhere with the promise of rescue, and even possibly the notion of freedom...but instead she abandoned him to the bowels of the Opera, left alone to roam around stone catacombs and tomb-like structures...

It was as if she had condemned him to death. Or perhaps something even worse; madness, cursed forever to wander by himself in the dark...

Always on the outside looking in.

Who could live alone without the sun for as long as he had? Who could peel joy from the gloom of stone, who could make an underground lake glitter with starlight? What kind of human being could stand to be apart from the warmth of another, void of any touch or feeling...

When was the last time he had been touched; really touched?

Christine swallowed anxiously. It slowly began to dawn on her that she had been his only window to the outside world. Their lessons had almost, in a way, also been her savior; for she had been filled with the heaviness of grief for as far as she could remember.

As she began to swirl the ink into letters upon the parchment, she remembered Emilie Giry arriving at the house by the sea. She had been tight-lipped and covered from head to toe in all black, but there had always been a warmth behind the dark of her eyes. She had taken Christine from an empty house and brought her here, to the Opera House, beginning her training as a ballerina almost immediately. And Christine had been grateful for the distraction, but had truly never mourned the loss of her old home...she had been ripped away from it quickly and stealthily, with invisible, outstretched hands.

And her father. She could never quite get that heavy feeling of greying despair out of her heart. Perhaps, now that she thought upon it, it still lived within her, this monstrous cloud of regret. Perhaps she had just learned to survive with it inside of her, tangled and matted with her spirit; the two unable to be torn apart from the other.

She tried to let the soft tinkling of Erik's playing soothe her. And Christine tried her hardest not to remember the moments where she could not sing in the chapel for him, no matter how hard she tried. The sadness was just too heavy, and words would not be able to find their form.

And on those days, he'd graciously let her rest.

Never pushing her past those feelings without care, never forcing her to make sounds other than the sobs and blackened, soot-infested cries. The candles would fizzle out, but somehow, he stayed there, on the other side of the painted window, listening. Just listening.

And then, guiltily, her mind flew to Raoul.

He hadn't even seen her when he introduced himself to the company. He'd walked right by her without a single passing glance.

She sighed, setting the pen down only to pick up her cup of wine. Raoul was nothing more than a doll or a painted bear left in the attic. He belonged there – in the past. And even if she allowed herself to dream of him remembering her, what good would it bring? Of course, they had shared a few winters together, and even a couple of summers. But even the handsome, youthful face of Raoul could not bring back those days and nights. They were nights – if anything – that she would die to forget.

Just to ease the pain.

Christine took up the pen with a newfound confidence that might have come from a mouthful of dry red wine, and finished the last sentence of the letter. Underneath, she signed her full name, lining its curves with a strike of ink underneath. Puzzled, she sat and stared at the signature; it looked different than it ever had before. Why did she draw the strike?

Was she becoming more powerful?

Was her spirit screaming to be set free?

"Erik," Christine called out, turning her body to look at him; his head was bowed over the keys, and he seemed to be lost within the melody that sailed around the room like wind, carrying flower petals and old bits of tree – it was perhaps born of spring...a renewal of some kind.

He lifted his fingers gracefully from the keys, slowly turning to face her. His eyes were misted over again, and he seemed hesitant to hold eye contact with her; another act that left her confused, but still drawn to him.

"Erik, I've finished. Now how are you going to send this to her when we're all the way down here?" she felt a lightness in her tone as she spoke to him, sipping a bit more wine as he stood. Her heart fluttered as she watched him walk – he had such an interesting gait – she'd never seen a man with such a powerful stride who stepped with such purpose, with such strength, grace, and beauty. As he drew nearer to her, her breasts grew heavy beneath the silk, and she folded her arms across her chest, embarrassed at the arousal that her body was falling head-first into.

"I have a system, if you want to see it. It's really quite simple," Erik finally spoke, taking the folded-up letter from Christine's outstretched hand. Christine raised her eyebrows, a smile curling upon her lips, her eyes sparkling with wonder. "A system? What sort of system?"

"Hmm, well, it's hard to describe. Come, I'll show it to you," he seemed excited at the notion, so Christine sprang up from the couch, her cup of wine in hand, following Erik eagerly out the parlor door and into the hallway. She jogged slightly to keep up with him, and immediately he seemed to notice and slowed down his steps. She smiled, although he still focused on the space of hallway ahead, for he was always noticing little things that others seemed blind to.

"How long have you lived down here, alone?" she asked as Erik led her through another doorway; a room that had no carpet laid down, and looked like it was used as a storage room. There were paintings stacked against the walls, dusted over, and a few old armchairs from productions in the past. A small, poorly sewn monkey with two cymbals attached to its hands sat in one of the chairs, looking sad and worn by time. Before she could go to it, Erik flipped a blanket over the front of the chair, covering the monkey and sending a swirl of dust up from the floor.

"Was that...was that yours?" Christine asked quietly, her eyes fixed on the back of his head. His hand hovered near the covered monkey, and for a moment, she thought he might be angry with her. A couple seconds of silence passed between them before Erik sighed deeply, turning his head so that she could only see the metallic mask.

"Yes...many years ago. I made it," his voice seemed small and childlike, again...laced with sorrow and...fear? "I've kept it all this time...once, it was my only friend. The only bit of peace that I could maintain in...in the place that I lived." His body was frozen, as if he wanted to touch the monkey once more, and Christine reached out without thinking, grasping him tenderly by the wrist. He whirled towards her with such sharpness that she winced, but still held her grip steady, and he gazed down at her, his blue eyes staring with such intensity, she thought she might wither away into dust. But it was not bad, the look within his eye. It was...

New. And strange.

Unfamiliar yet still familiar.

She thought she could smell the sea.

They stayed there for a moment, and time was nothing but a decoration, a man-made conversation that didn't actually exist. Somehow, together – touching – her hand upon his wrist, they'd birthed a spark in total darkness, so bright that even the stone could not keep it, nor hold it in the palms of its darkened, prison-like hands.

Christine was breathing the very air that he breathed, they were so close. And yet...

She knew he would pull away. And when he did, she slowly released her fingers from his wrist – surprised at how warm his skin felt upon her own.

"I'm sorry, I..." she began, but he shook his head, averting his eyes.

"It's a wound within me that has not yet healed," he murmured. "Some days I want to look at it. Other days, I...I find myself disgusted by it. It's a reminder of the people that were around me. The way they treated me. It was..." he swallowed, turning away from her, walking towards a peculiar mechanism that stood in the middle of the room. "I suppose at the time, I considered it normal. My face was just something that couldn't be fixed. Not with my voice, or my mind, or things that I made, fascinating things, Christine! Everything that poured out of me was beautiful. Everything except what this mask covers." His voice had turned grim, and his shoulders hunched forward. Christine wanted to go to him again, but she forced her lips to swallow more wine, instead – she could not go to him twice, surely it would be considered rude?

"Erik, what if...what if you showed me? What if those people were really bad people, and...and what you've been afraid of really isn't as bad as you think? Would it be too horrible for you to show me?"

Erik didn't respond. He reached up and grasped two ropes that hung from the ceiling – in fact, they were hung not from, but through the ceiling – there had been a hole somehow carved into the stone like an underground well. He pulled one of the ropes downward in a repetitive fashion, and a small wooden bucked inched its way downward through the ceiling. Erik let go of the rope once the bucket was about even with Christine's waistline, and then stepped back, gesturing toward the bucket, leaving Christine more than confused.

"So do I place it...in here?" she asked incredulously, her cheeks burning with the unanswered question that still hung heavy in the air...the one he had ignored. Erik nodded, stepping back, allowing her space to place the folded letter inside of the bucket. She surveyed the interior and saw it was lined with velvet, and sighed blissfully at his constant attention to detail. She dropped the letter into the bucket, stepping back proudly, looking up at Erik for the next step. "Now how does it reach Emilie?"

"Easy. I used a tool to make a hole in the basement floor. Then, really, the rest was just lining stone in the catacombs with chalk, marking where the next hole would be. It took me quite a while, but I had to figure out some way to install a pulley system, as Emilie no longer wished to come down here..." his voice faded off as he worked to move the bucket up through the ceiling by handling the other strands of rope.

"She used to visit me, at first. But then..." he sighed, continuing to pull upon the rope even though the bucket had disappeared. "She told me she couldn't stand it down here. So, I told her I'd write letters, and would see her one last time to tell her where to receive them. That was...oh, years ago," Erik let out a long bit of breath, and Christine watched, fascinating by the veins in his forearms that seemed to pop out from his skin as he worked. She bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing another mouthful of wine.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that she left you down here all alone. But don't worry, I've told her I'm done with her. Done with her as my mother-figure...or as my guide. She's nothing but an old woman who abandons people. Who abandoned you," Christine announced, pride swelling within her chest as Erik glanced at her over his shoulder, a shimmer in his eyes.

"That wasn't necessary, Christine. I didn't ask you to – "

"I don't care that you didn't ask! You never seem to ask for anything, Erik! You deserve to ask for something! Something that you want. All people are entitled to it, why should it stop at you? Why should you keep hiding?" she cried, indignant for the sudden rush inside of her chest to defend his humanity.

"You aren't some monster that deserves to live in the shadows. You're a man! You need to see the sun. You deserve to see the sun!" Her voice echoed against the cold stone walls and the carpet-less floor. She could no longer feel her toes, the chill was so great – but she didn't care. Not when she was filled with a fire to warm him, to accept him, to see him...

Truly see him.

"Show me!" She cried, advancing on him, her hands on her hips, the wine cup falling to the floor with a great clatter. "Show me what keeps you from going up there! Whatever it is, I'll defend you. I'll defend anything that – "

"No." Erik's eyes darkened, and he backed away from her slowly, shaking his head. "No, Christine."

"What are you so afraid of? You think I won't find you handsome? You think I won't care for you? I've cared for you since the day you rescued me in the chapel. I wanted to die, that day! I was thinking about how I was going to do it! Don't you realize how you've changed me? That I would be dead if you'd never pretended to be my angel? That we would have never – "

"Do not use your heart as a weapon against me!" Erik bellowed, thrashing his arms across his chest, slamming them into the stone wall behind him. "Do not force me to reveal what I choose to hide! You once accepted me as just a voice...and now you must accept me with half a face. If you don't, I'll..." his voice cracked, and he turned his head away from her. Christine fell back, retracing her past steps, cursing herself for the wine that now morphed her reality and was to blame for her newly discovered confidence.

"Erik, I..." she whispered, terrified of what he would say next. Would he cast her out? Bring her back up to the surface and lock the painted glass behind him?

Would he disappear because she had pushed him into a corner?

She suddenly wanted to cry. "Erik..." she whispered again, but did not make a move to go nearer to him. Christine hung her head and tears began to stream down her face, and she covered her mouth with a cold hand to stifle her sobs.

"Oh God, I've just ruined it, haven't I? I've pushed you too far. Forgive me, please...or be angry with me, if you must. I'll never...never ask about it again. I'll accept you as you are. Please, angel, Erik...please don't abandon me."

He was breathing heavily from what she could hear, and she watched him as he pushed off of the wall, stalking toward where she stood. She stared up at him, snot running down her chin, her eye makeup dribbling in rivers from the corners of her eyes. He reached out slowly and lifted a finger under her chin, turning it up slightly so that her neck was exposed. She breathed a rattled sigh when she finally looked into his eyes.

He was no longer angry.

"I would never abandon you," he said softly. "No matter what. Not even if you ripped this mask from my face, right now. But here, touch me," he stroked a finger along her jawline, taking her other hand in his. He pressed her pale fingers against the un-masked side of his face – only for a moment – before pushing her hand away, gently.

"This is me. This is what's real. The other side is not human. It's not...not who I am, at least not anymore. And down here I can choose, Christine. I can wear my mask without scrutiny, or questions, or demands...such as yours," he simpered, his lips almost twisting into a cruel smile.

"I choose not to live in the sun, now. I choose to be apart from humanity. People are wicked, and I find that I am much happier...well, perhaps not happy. But I am free, down here. Uncaged. Allowed to go and come as I please."

Christine stared up at him, lost in his eyes – an ocean that she now found herself engulfed by.

Something moved inside of her; something that had been still for a long, long while.

"Spirit of my spirit," she breathed, reaching out to take his hand. He allowed her to with caution, but she did not slip her hand into his; instead, she opened his fingers like a lotus flower and kissed the inside of his palm as gently as she could. Christine raised her head back up to look at him, and she smiled upon him, relieved that his anger had passed, and her shame with it.

"I suppose we've both forgiven each other for different things now, haven't we?" she said through a smile, releasing his hand from her own, immediately missing his warmth. Her lips burned and tingled with the kiss that she had given so freely, and her stomach flipped inside of her, amazed at her own bravery, although her knees felt suddenly weak.

"I should take you back, now, Christine," Erik's voice was tender, a rumble from deep inside of his chest. "You've had quite a bit of wine, and you should enjoy the fruits of your new dressing room...and finally sleep in a full-size bed, not those cots that they give to the ballet rats."

"Hey! I was one of those 'ballet rats"," she scowled, but the frown only lasted for a moment, as she saw the corners of his mouth turn upward.

"There's a big bed?" she pondered, now feeling a bit weary from the cold and from the amount of wine that she'd consumed.

"Mmm-hmm. And you need to be resting in it. You are the Prima-Donna, now, after all."

"Oh, Erik...Prima-Donna. I can't believe it. But isn't it such a long way back to the chapel? Across the lake and into the tunnels?"

Erik smirked mischievously, running a hand over a few stray tendrils of black hair. "A while ago I discovered a passageway that leads right up to that specific room, believe it or not. Through the mirror...of course, I only used it every now and then to trick the old bird, Carlotta...nasty woman, she was. Wicked, even. Everyone is relieved you've taken her place. And I plan to keep you there."

"So...does this mean I can see you more often? Since the mirror has a passageway?" She cocked her head at him, covering a yawn that was too strong to swallow down. Erik smiled at the gesture, and she waved a hand at him, "Oh, you!"

"Yes, I..." he hesitated, looking thoughtfully into her eyes. "I suppose you can, more easily, yes. But I will lock it behind me so that no one will find it. No one must find it...or they might find me. And I wouldn't recommend that."

"I know you don't want to hurt anybody," she murmured, padding toward the archway with feet as numb as ice. "You have a heart, Erik. I can see it leaking out of you. The way you...you act around me. You're sweet and kind," she turned in the doorway to look back at him, and he was already staring at her, a look within the blue of his eyes that made her stomach flip again, yet she could not name the feeling.

"Lead me to the passageway," she whispered, "my feet are almost frozen." Erik nodded; he was no longer the drunken man who she had slapped, or even the voice inside of the walls. He was altogether unlike anyone she had ever met, and she let him take her by the hand and lead her down the hallway and up a flight of stone stairs. A long, lonely corridor stretched out before them, with chandeliers on the walls that were covered in dust and mildew.

When they finally reached the end of the hall, Christine was ready to fall into her new bed, and she leaned on Erik a slight bit, pressing her chin into his shoulder. She heard him push something mechanical – something hidden – and with a series of clicks and shudders, he slid the door in front of them open. A wide array of peonies, roses, and lilies were crowded onto the vanity and the nearby tables, and an oil lamp was already lit by the bedside, the flame inside casting their shadows upon the walls; one very large, and one very small.

Christine walked through the mirror-doorway and turned back to look at Erik, once more. He leaned against the doorway, his face half-darkened by the glittering metallic mask, his eyes falling deeply into hers.

Dark, warm, and bright.

"How will I know...when can I see you again?" she murmured sleepily, sitting upon the edge of the bed.

"Slip a note underneath the door with the time, and I will meet you here, at this threshold." He paused, kneading his hands behind his back. "Go to sleep, sweet Christine," he whispered, and she nodded, crawling with relief under the covers, wiggling her toes further into the quilt, watching with half-closed eyes as he slid the door shut.

"Spirit of my spirit," he whispered once the door was locked, and he turned down the passageway, slowly pulling the mask from his face.

"Perhaps I can show you, someday..." he whispered, turning the mask over and over in his hands. Erik then joined the shadows, his eyes seeing the way in the darkness, for his spirit was lit by a dancing flame that could never be put out nor dimmed.

He felt a shudder in his chest and knew, at that moment, the hardening of his heart, after so many weary years had been softened; his palm still burned from the kiss she had given him, willingly. A kiss he would dream about every waking moment, until they were together, once more.

You have a heart, Erik. I can see it leaking out of you.

He imagined there, in the darkness of the passageway, that his heart had opened up like the face of a red rose. He dreamt in his mind that it's fullness would spill over like red wine in a glass, so fierce and vermillion that it left a trail behind him, staining both stone and water all the way back to his home.

...

A/N: WHAT ARE WE FEELING?

There is SUCH a strong bond between them, even before they meet – and I tried to portray the push and pull between the two (both are very new to the aspect of love) to be quite moving and powerful. They are feeling each other out, apologizing when necessary, even touching a little...

Next up, Emilie makes an appearance, as well as Raoul, and Christine continues on as Prima-Donna...

Leave a comment if you are enjoying this story! I would appreciate the love so very much.

Love, L.