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It was unlike any dream she had ever experienced in that, while it was so obviously a fiction, it felt more real than almost anything she had experienced since her poor father's death. She was singing on stage, her voice pure and beautiful, molded to a perfection that she knew it would never realistically attain. Out into the audience she stared, euphoria gracing her face even as she saw that no one was actually seated there. It was an empty hall, but she felt eyes upon her. Eyes that knew the depths of her very soul, each sin and every good work, all her fears and desires. Those eyes scrutinized, it's true, but they also seemed to envelope and comfort her, forcing a surge of confidence through her. The last of the notes rang from her vocal chords, shaped and softened, projected out into the great gilded room. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as though she had run a great distance, and even though no applause came to her ears, she knew the watcher approved.

"Christine, sweet Christine." the golden voice called beseechingly, and Christine's eyes slid closed as the floor slipped out from underneath her feet. She wasn't afraid, for she was being called home.

Falling, falling, never seeming to find an the many levels of the opera house she flew, her elaborate costume slipping off piece by piece until she scarcely wore a stitch. The way down was dark and cool and seemingly never ending, but she was not afraid. No, she couldn't be afraid when the voice called to her so sweetly. As the voice grew louder, closer, Christine opened her eyes, peering down, looking for the one who spoke so warmly.

He stood at the bottom of this seemingly endless drop, golden and glorious in knee deep water, dark head peering down at his hands. The gloves were gone, and she hungrily gazed at the hands of her savior, only to find that they might just as well have belonged to a skeleton. Devastatingly thin, pale, with unusually long fingers.

In her dream she accepted them, longed for them, for those hands had saved her. The floor was rising up to meet her alarmingly fast, however, and she called for him, calling out "Erik" in a panic, arms outstretched in a vain attempt to cushion her fall. Hitting the ground at this speed would surely be fatal. At the sound of her cries he looked up, raising his skeletal hands up to catch her, and Christine looked upon the face of death. There were no screams, no cries for mercy. Her arms wrapped around his neck when, impossibly, he caught her. She was smiling,breathless and giddy with relief, staring up lovingly at golden eyes that seemed to exist for her alone. A small hand eased up and touched his desiccated skin, paper thin and ghostly pale, a thumb passing over bloated, misshapen lips, and her angel lowered his face to hers, a second away from a kiss.

"Welcome home, my Christine."

Christine lay on her meager bed, the weak light of pre-dawn drifting through the high windows. Her heart pounded in her chest, hands clenching the thin coverlet before she sat up, hugging her knees and hiding her face. The first thoughts that went through her mind were of her ange, Erik. Was he real, or had her mind finally snapped, creating a fiction that she had long desired?

She rose quickly and quietly, careful not to disturb the other occupants of the room as she dressed for the day. The managers gave the performers Sunday off, and she knew that most of them liked to sleep in as late as possible. The halls were empty as she made her way to the chapel, and though it was still darker than she'd have liked, she continued on without trepidation for what could be lurking in the shadows.

Once the chapel came into view, Christine was struck by the fear of her actions of the previous night. Quickly she marched over and lit a candle, offering up a quick prayer of thanks and forgiveness, all the while staring longingly at the daguerreotype of her father. Surely Erik was sent by him, by her father as promised. Why else would he have saved her? As she knelt in contemplation, images from her dream assailed her. What was an angel of music, anyways? Why would he wear such earthly clothing, the tuxedo and cloak, instead of his holy vestments? Were the great artists and visionaries of the world wrong? Typically creatures in such dark raiment were denizens of evil and death.

Death. Was he the Angel of Death,then? The thought frightened her, tears dripping down her cheeks, but she pushed such imaginings away quickly. If she thought such things of her angel, he might not visit again. No, she thought as she sat straighter, she'd do anything to keep him from leaving.

Now if only she could find some way to occupy her mind until night came and they were face to face once more. She had to have some assurance that she hadn't completely gone mad.

Once he had arrived back in his lair, Erik felt the warmth of Christine's presence pass away like a fading dream. What had possessed him to help her? The girl was obviously troubled, to still believe such childish things as her own personal heavenly being, and to attempt suicide because such a being would not appear? Still, the wonder in her eyes at his sudden appearance had been extremely gratifying. For someone to express an emotion other than fear in front of him? It was virtually unheard of. She'd even touched him of her own accord, her petite hands gripping his arm as if she'd disappear without it.

He shuddered to think of his unworthy hands touching her, even though the gloves. They were undeniably ugly, very long and skeletal, the skin deathly pale, and the cold always managed to seep into them. His hands were one thing, but to have touched her with his lips, disgusting, misshapen things that they were...he felt faint at the memory. Her skin was fragrant and soft, softer than he dared imagine. At any moment he thought she would flee, had expected it even, and he could not bear to make eye contact with her after such a foul transgression as touch her with his bare skin. It surprised him greatly when her fingers had dared to touch his wretched mouth in return. His chest clenched horribly at the memory, his hands shaking as he brought his accursed digits up to touch his lips. His tongue flicked out to moisten the dry skin, and with shame he imagined the taste of her on them.

With a groan he could not repress, Erik paced around his lair in a vain attempt to get the troubled girl off his mind. How the morphine called to him, the sweet bite of the needle, the endless drifting of numbing painlessness...but no, not yet. He lost time during these sessions of desperate self-indulgence, and he promised he would be waiting on her. He had to compose himself, and he knew sleep would be impossible, so he began attacking the great pipe organ like it had insulted him, coercing notes from the pedals and keys, pouring all his frustrations into soars strains of music. The melodies echoed off the cavernous walls, moaning out his shame and confessing his self-disgust while at the same time praising that which was most good in his life.

Christine! Sweet, sad Christine. His graceful hands taught the organ of her beauty, her bottomless blue eyes and chocolate curls, her creamy skin and delicate features. The instrument bewailed her melancholy, cried for her as surely as Erik himself wanted to. He touched on her darkness, a troubled darkness that he alone had witnessed. Yet by the end of his rampage he played for the hope she instilled in him, the wild, insane hope that she could-but no. Finally he wept as he drew the chords to a close, deep and broken sobs for the vain, blind hope that she could look past his hideous body. Could she break through his desiccated shell and find something worthy of her smile, her touch and affection? An angel of mercy to deliver him from his loneliness.

If only she did not think him to be a celestial being himself. Erik sat, wiping the tears and sweat from his face, and he stared at the mask at his side, his heart and mind heavy. An angel? Him? How did she live such a long time on this Earth without learning the unfortunate truth? Other than her blessed self, angels don't exist.