Author's note, 2004—This is the second part of an old Night Encounters story, one of a series of unrelated vignettes based on the ALW musical and set during the fortnight Christine spent underground with Erik, when she was uncertain of her feelings for him. These stories follow the Red Rose timeline, but some are darker than Red Rose, as they are set in an earlier, more tumultuous period of Erik and Christine's relationship.

The first half of the story can be found here. Please do read it first. s/2114917/1/The-Music-Lesson-Part-1

Author's note. 2016-My apologies for this taking so long to update. I don't think I realized I had never posted the second part of the story.

Disclaimers-All characters used in Night Encounters belong either to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, or the Really Useful Group. In regard to the French language, Paris, history, certain songs, the Opera Charles Garnier—all errors and liberties taken are mine, and for that I do apologize.

~Riene

The Music Lesson

Copyright 2004, 2016 by Riene

Part Two

They alighted the gondola boat in silence, and once in the underground house, Christine stood still, silently willing his cold hands not to touch her neck as Erik lifted the cloak from her shoulders. They crossed the threshold of the music room door, and he moved to pour them both a half-glass of wine, directing her with a motion toward the small fire. Christine quickly crossed the faded oriental carpet with its warm reds and blacks, a subtle reminder of another lifetime. The room was warm; he had been expecting her.

"What song were you having trouble with today, ma cheré?" Lost in thought, his voice startled her; she had not heard his noiseless tread as he approached to hand her the bell-shaped crystal glass.

"Tristan and Isolde." She moved away, bent and retrieved the folio of music from where she'd cast it upon entering the underground lair, and handed it to him. He accepted it and she stood idly watching him turn the pages back to front in his deft hands, watching him pause to read the summary inside the cover.

The story is about Tristan, whose name meant sadness, and whose name was given to him after his mother's death in childbirth. Because he was the nephew of King Mark of Cornwall, it was Tristan's duty to provide an escort for King Mark's betrothed, the beautiful and fiery Isolde, on her way to join King Mark and become his bride. On the long journey, Tristan and Isolde realize their passion for each other and attempt suicide by drinking what they believe to be a death potion; however, Isolde's maid, not willing to help Isolde die substitutes a love potion, causing them to fall even more deeply in love. What follows is the sad tale of their love, separation and death. Their love is too powerful to deny, and they betray their King. Unable to cope with his betrayal of his uncle, Tristan allows himself to be mortally wounded and Isolde, broken-hearted, wills her own death soon thereafter. King Mark has compassion on the dead lovers and buries them side-by-side. It is said that a vine grew from Tristan's grave and a rose from Isolde's. To this day, the vine and rose are entwined, never to be separated again.*

Erik flipped the sheets open, skimming through the lyrics, the measures, before looking up at her. "But these lines are beautiful," he said quietly, holding her eyes with his own. "So far have I wandered, that nevermore may I find the right path. All that my eyes behold is but weariness and sorrow, weakness of spirit and heaviness of heart…"

"…In all this world, there is nothing that my heart loves, except you."

But the young singer shrugged, petulant. "The lines are beautiful, yes, but the Director demands more. This is difficult for me, Erik!"

Her maestro raised a disdainful eyebrow, irked at her response. "Yes, I had the misfortune to hear your rehearsal this afternoon. You do my lessons little credit."

Stung, Christine looked away. "You have not helped me with this yet."

"You oughtn't need my help with this," he retorted. "But we will see where you are failing." He turned and led the way to the piano.

Erik flexed his inhuman hands over the worn ivory keys. "From the aria," he commanded, and swept into the opening measures, watching her with critical eyes. Taking a deep breath, Christine squared her shoulders and began the song, but his expression was intense, unnerving, and soon the intricate rhythm and high notes caused her to stumble over the lyrics.

"Again."

She clasped the libretto tightly and began again, concentrating. Triumphantly, she completed the difficult passage, but realized immediately she would get no praise tonight. "What is wrong now?"

Frustrated, Erik slammed his hands down on the keyboard. The resulting cacophony of sound caused Christine to flinch and cover her ears.

"Christine, you must concentrate! Open up your throat and sing!" he demanded. "Your voice is better than this; you are not trying tonight!"

She cast down the libretto with an uncharacteristic display of temper. "I don't know if it is the German, or if it is the story line. For some reason I cannot seem to feel any interest in this role!"

They glared at each other across the length of the piano, and her maestro smiled inwardly, pleased to have finally provoked some spirited response from his pupil. "Your tone is flat; you sound as if you are serenading a turnstile," he said coolly.

Rather to his surprise, Christine's shoulders sagged. "Perhaps it would be better if I was. It would, in fact, be easier."

Erik paused, a new thought forming. "Who is cast to portray Tristan?"

Christine sighed, shrugging. "I very much fear it will be Ubaldo," she said gloomily. "I simply cannot sing to him in this way, and La Carlotta glares at me from the stalls every time I try."

Amused comprehension crinkled the corners of his dark eyes. There were times he was reminded how very young she was. "Perhaps, then, it is not so much the song then, but the singer?"

"It's the songs as well," she muttered.

His visible eyebrow rose. "The music is quite acceptable, the words of a man singing of his love."

"But it's so melodramatic," she scoffed.

Erik turned away, compulsively straightening the already meticulously tidy folios atop the piano. "You don't believe it's possible to die of a broken heart, Christine?" he asked quietly.

She looked up swiftly, but his black eyes revealed only mild curiosity. She did not note the tension of his fingers, clenched around an errant pen.

The young singer smiled. "No, of course not, Erik. Oh, those old stories always say it, but it's simply not possible."

Erik studied her open face and innocent, disdainful, amused blue eyes. "Tell me, Christine," he said softly, "have you ever been in love, ever felt that emotion?"

She frowned, and then leaned back against her hands, which rested on the chair nearest the fire. "I loved my father, very much, Erik. I still miss him so."

Erik shook his head. "No, that is not the kind of love I meant, Christine."

"You mean like between a man and a woman?" she asked.

"Yes," his deep voice replied, with a quiet intensity she did not understand.

She shook her head slowly. "No," Christine replied honestly. "There have been a few young men I have known well enough to have dinner with, or to dance with, when I was at the Conservatoire, but no one I've felt strongly for." A sudden blush betrayed her thoughts. Oh, Raoul, she thought with sudden piercing sweetness. Could I learn to love you in this way? She looked up at her teacher, at his stoic features and the burning intensity of his black eyes, and sought to change the focus. "Have you ever loved someone, Erik?" she asked hesitantly.

A flash of pain crossed his features, and his long fingers tightened on the wine glass until they grew white. Carefully, he placed the delicate crystal atop the mantle's gleaming wood.

"Erik?"

His voice was only a pale shade of its usual vibrant tone, as he sought to keep the desperation in his voice from bleeding through and frightening her. "Yes, Christine. I have known what it is to love."

Pulled by the undercurrent of anguish, she stretched a gentle hand toward him, then let it fall by her side. "Will you tell me about it, Erik?" she whispered.

He turned away, so that she saw only the emotionless mask. "How can I describe it, Christine? It is a wound that bleeds, a euphoria, an intoxication of the senses. A rush of longing to be with the other, to make the other the focus of your existence. An obsession of thought, till no other thought possess your waking hours. And when you dream, you dream of that love, and awaken without rest." He took a deep, blind breath. "It is a need, a soul-deep craving to be with the other, to touch the other, a hunger of the senses to see the other, to hear her voice, her laugh, a need for her love in return until it fills the yearning emptiness inside you, fills you like a hollow vessel is filled with holy oil." Erik stopped, aware his voice was shaking.

Wide-eyed, Christine looked up into his shadowed face, a blush across her damask cheeks. She roused herself from her reverie, from the spell spun about her by his words of love, of passion. "No," she said softly, "I have never cared for someone like that."

He turned away, toward the fire. "Ah, well," Erik said lightly, with a control she could never imagine, "Perhaps you shall, someday. I was…merely trying to help you comprehend your role." Erik reached again for his glass, marveling at the steadiness of his hand, and drained the contents quickly.

"Come." He stood and held out a hand to pull her to her feet. "I will help you with the libretto. Let us rehearse this scene as though I am Tristan, the child of sadness, and you are Isolde the Fair. Try to feel the emotion, the love and loss she feels for her lover, Christine. I need to see how you have enacted it thus."

With a deft flick of his wrist, the man known as the Opera Ghost returned the libretto to her then walked around the piano, pointing at the wineglass. "We'll start from the scene where Tristan takes up the cup of poison."

Christine nodded, her eyes quickly skimming the lines again before she placed the booklet face downward and turned to him. As in the first days when he was her Angel of music, Erik walked around her, frighteningly close at times, his intense expression commanding, appraising, correcting a tone, a shade of rhythm, a pronunciation. She cast weariness aside, and fell, absorbed, into the role as it approached the final duet.

Erik nodded, coolly pleased with her efforts. Then subtly his body posture changed, his expression growing distraught, wild, as he entered on cue to sing the second part of the duet.

"Drop the anchor! The rudder to the current! Sails and masts to the winds!" Stepping forward, he seized the wineglass from her hands. "Well do I know Ireland's queen and the wondrous power of her craft. I made use of the balm that she offered; now I take up the cup so that I may be completely recovered today. And also pay attention to the oath of truce that I make to you in gratitude! Tristan's honor-highest loyalty! Tristan's misery-boldest defiance! Heart's deception! Dream of presentiment! For eternal mourning the sole solace: Merciful elixir of forgetting, I drink you without flinching!" He raised the wineglass and drank the remaining droplets in the cup, facing her.

How quickly her tutor had memorized the score! Determined to redeem herself from the poor performance earlier, Christine stood taller, reassuming her own role, and shook back her hair proudly. "Deceit here, too? Half is mine!" She pulled the cup from his hands, her fingers brushing his. "Traitor, I drink to you!" She mimed taking a sip, then made as if to throw the cup down, but instead swiftly placed it on the floor. Erik took a step toward her, nodding, and she turned again to him.

"The potion is acting upon us, here," he said quietly, and she began to follow his lead, mimicking his movements, trembling, reaching for her heart, hunching as if against pain, pulling at her clothing and hair, striking her head. Erik turned to her, his expression altering from defiance to confusion to desperate love, and though she mirrored his emotions confused thoughts raced through her head. His expression was all too real for comfort…and yet…surely he was only acting…acting with the skill she had seen him demonstrate many times before. Reassured, Christine raised her face to his, abandoning her fears midst the beauty of the music rushing through her again.

"Tristan!" she sang, trying to look as though the man she loved desperately stood before her.

"Isolde!" Caught in the power of the lyrics, Erik reached for her and Christine cast herself into his arms, her eyes bright with emotion, sinking against his chest.

"Faithless beautiful one!"

"Most sublime woman!" he sang in reply, the despair of a lifetime of emptiness surging through his velvet dark voice, the despair he knew Christine heard only as the despair of the young soldier.

But Christine stared into his face, shaken. Beneath her hands his heart pounded wildly. No performer, no matter how good, how blessed with talent, could look out of eyes filled with such anguish and be enacting a scene. Fear arced through her, fear that he would give in to the passion of his own emotions, fear that no one save Madame Giry knew of these subterranean journeys, fear for her own safety once more, and she felt herself grow stiff.

For a moment only he held her, feeling the younger woman trembling in his arms, then Erik pulled back, releasing her from the silent embrace, stepping backwards into the shadows, trying to still his ragged breathing, and cursing himself for having frightened her again. He reached for the libretto, anxious to divert her attention. "At that point, the men on the ship begin shouting for King Marke."
Still shaken by the intensity of feeling she'd experienced, Christine could only nod and watch as he covered the piano keys, then handed her the libretto and spoke, his voice brusque.

"If you will remember, and perform tomorrow as you did tonight, I see no need for the Director to critique your abilities."

Erik turned away, cursing himself for allowing once again this wrenching pain to touch him. More fool, you, he sneered. You will never learn. Behind him Christine followed as he strode rapidly into the foyer.

"Your cloak, Mademoiselle, and parcel. The hour is late and I must return you to your home. Messieurs Firmin and André will not easily forgive me if I keep their enchanting new singer out and tire her needlessly."

Wordlessly she turned and allowed him to drape the cloak about her shoulders, as she pulled gloves onto her icy hands and then followed her dark maestro away from the underground house.

In silence they traversed the lake, grateful for the encompassing darkness. He did not ask her thoughts; his own were too turbulent. The play was only too apt. Like Isolde, she was so young, and as of yet ignorant of the power she wielded over him. And for himself, he could see no other ending save death. Like Tristan, death from his own hands of despair, or death alone like King Marke, dying of rejection and ill-fated love.

Thank you for reading, and please review

*Author's note—The summary Erik reads and the words of the libretto come from websites which I tried to acknowledge here, but FFN truncates links too much!