I have returned! Thanks for all the reviews and favorites and stuff over the past little while. It still means a lot to me. I read all of them. It's so nice of you guys.

That being said, I'm super nervous about posting this. I didn't write anything at all during my hiatus, so I'm very out of practice. I can only hope that this isn't too bad and is somewhat bearable. Please feel free in giving suggestions/comments on how I can improve.

With this being a sequel, I don't think it'll be as intense or plot-driven as some of my other stories, just so you're aware. Also, as I began to develop and write, I went back and reread some of the more critical reviews of Anathema and the suggestions some readers had. There were complaints (a lot a LOT of complaints haha) about Christine. I'm not going to change her character or her personality, but I'll try to flesh her out a bit more and give her more depth. I'll also try to do better in some other aspects readers mentioned.

Again, thanks for the reviews/PMs that were left. A big thanks to edka88 for her continual support and encouragement and friendship, even when I wasn't writing anything. Thanks for the revision and reviews of the first couple rough drafts and for everything else, friend. :)

Enjoy and review!

Redemption

The graveyard was small. Warm summer air filtered through the trees and illuminated it, and she looked around with wide eyes. There were small crosses, mostly, just like she saw in the small church. And the necklace. She put a hand to her neck and grasped it to ensure its safety. It was one thing she could not leave behind. It was important.

She stared at the cross in front of her, knowing each detail of it, each imperfection and curve. Then she looked up at her Pappa. He was holding her hand tightly, his head bowed and his eyes closed. She could see tears dripping down his cheeks. Why was he crying? He had told her today was a happy day. They were going to Paris. Where Moder had lived as a little girl.

"Are you sad?" she whispered. "Pappa?"

Gustave blinked and then smiled at her. "No, ängel. I am very happy. We are going to have so much fun in Paris. Right?"

She nodded quickly, her curls bobbing up and down wildly. Then he bent down and lifted her up. Having just turned ten, she was getting too big for him to pick up and carry around, but she still happily wrapped her spindly arms around his neck.

"And you're bringing your violin?" she said.

"Of course! We can sing every day if you want, Lotte." He crushed her into a hug, and she squealed and giggled girlishly before he set her back down. Then he took her hand again and led her away from the cemetery, wiping his face with his free hand.

"We'll sing every day, and then you'll be good enough to sing for the whole world!" Gustave exclaimed. "You have a special gift, Christine. One that comes from God. And the whole world should hear it!"

Visions and dreams flashed through her ten year-old mind...That of her in a beautiful blue dress with pretty shoes and makeup, singing for millions of people, and they would all love her. And Pappa would play his violin, and they would love him, too. He was the best violinist in the whole world, after all…

"Christine."

She blinked, startled, and came tumbling back to the present. The cemetery vanished, as did the warm Swedish countryside, and she looked to see that she was sitting at a table, yogurt dripping steadily into her lap.

"Ugh," she grunted in irritation, setting her spoon down hurriedly to wipe it up. "Sorry. I was kinda out of it for a sec, there…"

He was watching her, his bottom lip frowning in confusion. "You must hurry. I still have to warm you up before you leave."

She nodded. "I'll be right there."

He left, and she finished getting the yogurt off of her before sighing and rubbing her eyes. At least she was still wearing her pajamas and not her new dress.

The memories had come as she had thought of her audition and of her girlish dreams of fame and stardom and singing. So far it had been a bumpy road. But today she had a chance to try again.

Her stomach clenched at the thought. The audition. It sent some chills through her. Excitement and terror. Months and months of silence...It had been almost an entire year since she had sung for anyone but Erik. And she secretly felt if she failed at this as well, then...Figaro and Elektra had made her question herself—she was questioning herself now more than ever—though both of those times outside forces had prevented her.

And yet...maybe it was all just a sign. Erik seemed confident, as always, that she would be fine, but hadn't he had the same attitude about Figaro and Elektra? And look what had happened there. What was worse, she had failed without even really trying. What if she actually tried this time and failed?

It wasn't as if she wasn't excited to sing; she was—overjoyed, actually, at the thought...but months of reflection and looking back over her short career made her realize what a huge disaster it had already turned out to be.

Quickly, she cleaned up her plate and rushed to the bathroom to shower, knowing that he was waiting for her her. He had been merciless, demanding, and strict during their last several lessons, and it had been grueling and sometimes overwhelming. He had said she was so close to breaking past where she had been before. At least that thought was encouraging.

She emerged and went over to the piano, pulling on a curl as she took her place. He was already seated, and they began their warm-ups. Christine sang dutifully, trying to convince herself that it was just another lesson, nothing too special. The accompaniment stopped suddenly, and she trailed off in confusion, looking at him.

"What is wrong?" he said. "You are cutting off your full voice!"

"Sorry," she said, clearing her throat, red beginning to bloom along her cheeks. "I'll try again."

He played, and she sang, but he stopped. Then they tried again. And again. And again.

She didn't know what he wanted. She was trying. But he was being picky right now.

"Stop!" he snapped. She winced, looking at the floor, avoiding his gaze. "Two days ago this was not a problem. What has happened?"

She shrugged and muttered, "Maybe I'm just...a little nervous today…"

"Nervous? Why should you be?"

"Erik, I haven't sung in...months!" she said feebly. "It's kinda scary, y'know...Remember the last couple times I tried to perform?"

His eyes narrowed. "Perhaps we have had a bit of bad luck," he admitted grudgingly. "But nothing will happen this time. I am confident that you shall sing well—so long as you relax and stop trying to bite down on your notes."

She took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay, you're right. It'll be fine. I'm just being silly."

But she could not suppress the fluttering in her stomach nor a nagging, negative voice that whispered horrible things to her about her past failures. She tried to brush it aside and focus.

For the next hour, she fussed over her outfit and hair, asking for his opinion as she dashed about the underground home, her hair half-done and one of her shoes in her hand.

"Does this look okay?" was her repeated question, though she didn't know why she was even asking. He would just glance at her and grunt noncommittally. She had smuggled a small hand mirror down and always tucked it away after using it, and she looked at it repeatedly, afraid that something was out of place and would embarrass her. But Erik said nothing, and she had to simply trust him that she didn't look too awful.

At last she settled on something and managed her hair, and she gathered up her things and stuck them in her bag. Erik opened the door to escort her to the exit. Like before, he was not going to go with her to her audition, and that made her more nervous than she would have liked to admit. She wanted him with her as she sang. But...she couldn't be a baby. She shook her head as they walked. She was a married woman now, not a child. Erik couldn't hold her hand through literally everything.

She tightened her grip on his fingers, her bare arms and legs a little chilly in the tunnels. Erik was quiet, his pace easy, and his breathing normal. At least he seemed calm.

They reached the small room where the door was, and he unlocked it. When he looked at her, Christine threw her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest, clinging to him.

"Are you sure you can't come with me?" she said, her voice trembling.

"My dear, it is nothing more than an audition," he said, sounding a little alarmed. "You will be marvelous."

She was silent for several long moments and then asked, "Will you...give me a good luck kiss at least?"

After a pause, he obliged, awkwardly pressing the bottom of his mask to her lips. Then she shook her head. "A real one," she said, looking up at him. "Without the mask. Please?" Maybe that sounded a little desperate...but she liked it when he kissed her and hoped that it would calm her.

"I shall ruin your pretty lipstick," he said.

"I can reapply," she said shortly. "Please?"

He watched her for a few seconds and then carefully pulled it off, and she leaned up eagerly. She put her arms around his neck and pulled herself closer, his lips thin and cool, though they always warmed a bit after touching hers. Just as she was beginning to become light-headed, he pulled away quickly, tying his mask back on and opening the door. Bright sunlight streamed in, blinding her.

"Hurry," he commanded. She gave him one last glance. He was waiting. Then she stepped into the outside world and exited the alleyway. It was early autumn, and she shivered just slightly as she hurried out onto the streets. She should've brought along a jacket.

After a few minutes, she was seated in the bus, and she pulled out her music to read over. A note fell out between the pages. Her heart fluttered a little as she recognized Erik's handwriting. Maybe a note of encouragement or love? But she looked and then smiled sadly. It was a list of things for her to remember during her song, short comments like Glottal stop on fifteenth measure, Breath control before second cadenza, Listen for variance in truce keep chasing

She blinked at the last phrase and then giggled. Obviously she was not entirely adept at deciphering his handwriting yet. Although it wasn't a love note, she still found it a bit sweet and tucked it carefully back into her bag. For a minute, she examined her lips in the window reflection, making sure her lipstick wasn't smeared. Then she leaned her head back against the seat, trying to control her nerves.

Through some miracle, she had persuaded Erik to pull his long fingers out of it all. Maybe the miracle was because she had asked it the day after they had married and he was still a little dizzy from everything that had happened, but...She was glad. There would be no manipulations, no threats, no nothing. Just...her and her talent. Erik was not at all happy about it, but he had promised her, and by the way he would sometimes glower or mutter about it, she had a feeling that he was keeping his promise. If she succeeded, this would show him that she did not need his so-called "connections" and that he didn't have to always threaten or bully people to get his way. He always told her she was beyond talented. So why not let her prove it to him?

The bus approached her stop, and she tucked everything away before hurrying off, breathing deeply to calm her nerves. It had been so long...She thought back on her audition at the Opera House. It felt like ages ago. Her father had still been alive then, some of his last days...Her throat clogged, and she cleared it quickly, shaking her head. She couldn't walk into her audition crying.

The studio was in the basement of a large building of other offices, and she rode the elevator down, looking at herself in the mirror to ensure that nothing was amiss. She looked pale, and she pinched her cheeks to try to give herself some color.

As soon she stepped into the studio, she gulped. A thin, graceful-looking man was waiting for her, and he looked her up and down, frowning.

"Christine Day?" he asked. She had kept her maiden name after marrying Erik, as he would not let her have Madeleine's—Reshetnikov. It saddened her a little that she wasn't able to change her name as a symbol of her becoming his, but the ring and his love had helped her enough to accept. That and the fact that she had worried over the spelling and correct pronunciation of the Russian.

She nodded in response to his question, not brave enough to correct the pronunciation. "Yeah," she squeaked. Then she blushed brightly.

"Follow me through here," he commanded, and she was led through a door into a large room with various curtains and bars and mirrors along the wall, obviously a multi-use room for rehearsing. A table was along the wall, and three other men sat behind it. She was led over to them, and she tried to smile and look confident, but she couldn't stop her hands from shaking. Her legs felt a little unsteady.

The thin man sat behind the table with them and joined the conversation; they were talking about soccer. Christine stood there and tried not to fidget, unsure if she should interrupt or not.

At long last, one of them yawned, looked at his watch, and said, "All right, then. Let's get started." Then he turned to look at her with a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. She resisted shrinking back. They were all looking at her now, and she could see one of them frowning as he took her in.

"You're Christine Day, then?" one of them finally said.

"Yeah," she croaked, clearing her throat hastily, wishing her blush would go away. "Thanks...thanks for taking, um...the time to listen to me today."

They made no reply, save one of them held out his hand. She stared at it. Did he want a handshake?

"Your résumé," he said, sounding exasperated when he realized her confusion.

"Oh!" She blushed. "Sorry." Quickly, she dug it out of her bag and handed it to him, feeling as if her face were on fire.

"Did you bring enough copies for all of us?" the frowning one asked, folding his arms.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I didn't even—I didn't even realize! I'm sorry." She was mortified.

He sighed loudly and then leaned over to look at the paper. They all examined it for a moment. Then one of them whispered something into his neighbor's ear. They both laughed. She hoped it was a joke about soccer.

Feeling humiliated, she had no choice but to stand there and wait for them to do or say something. Finally, one of them did.

"You were at the Opera House for months, but it looks here like you never actually sang in anything."

"Um," she began. Then she cleared her throat hastily and tried to sound professional. "It was...um, unusual circumstances. I was supposed to sing Barbarina in The Marriage of Figaro. You know that one? Oh, sorry, I'm sure...you do. Anyway, there was that...fire. And the production was cancelled. So...yeah."

"But you were still employed after Figaro," another said. "And you still didn't do anything."

"Well," she said hastily. "I was cast to sing as a girl in Elektra, but...yeah. Again, circumstances. There were...personal problems. Not anything bad or anything! But I wasn't able to be there for that one, either. It was...yeah, just hard circumstances."

"The circumstances," one said, and the frowning one laughed behind his hand.

"Yes," she said shortly, wanting to either put her hands on her hips and stomp her foot or blush and sink in the floor.

"Well," said one, setting down her résumé. "Okay, then. Sing something for us. Just eight bars will do. Patrick will accompany you."

"Eight bars?" she questioned. "That's it?" That was nothing! She had a whole song. Which part was she to choose?

"That's it," he replied. "That's all we want."

"But…" She didn't continue. She had a feeling that they wouldn't listen to her protests. Hands still shaking, she pulled out her music and smoothed it out, trying to decide which eight bars. Aware that they were waiting for her and were already impatient enough, her eyes frantically scanned the song. Erik would have been much better suited to choose. He would have known which few measures to select, which ones would have shown her off best. But she had no idea...The trickier ones with the cadenza to impress them? But she needed the lead-ins to those parts to sing them confidently. Jumping right into them wasn't a good idea. And yet, what if the other parts bored them?

"Well?" came the question. "Are you singing for us or not?"

"Sorry!" she said, accidentally crushing the music a little as she jumped. "Sorry, I'm ready."

There was an upright piano a little way off, and the graceful, tall man made his way over to it. She handed him the crumpled music, indicated which measures to play, and went back in front of the table, smoothing her dress out and swallowing, trying to envision Erik there.

The music started suddenly, before she had looked to him to signal she was ready. Unprepared, she opened her mouth quickly, trying to get a breath in but unable to. She sang, and...it fell apart. Her lack of a proper first breath had already thrown her off-sync, and she tried desperately to get on top of the accompaniment, but she was failing miserably. She confused some of her lyrics, which flustered her into missing a few notes completely. Everything Erik had drilled into her seemed to fly completely out the window before she could even lift up a hand to try to grab it. There was no breath control, no diction, no fluidity to her voice, no life...Nothing.

And then it was all over, faster than she had expected, and she stood in disbelief. There was a general air of displeasure surrounding the men watching her. She stood there, hands clasped, her face burning. She vaguely wondered if they would agree to let her try again if she asked.

"Okay, Ms. Day," one of them said, handing out her résumé. "Thanks for your time."

"Th-thank you," she stuttered. "Um. Don't you...wanna keep that?"

"No, thanks," he said. "We have your number on file if we need anything."

She took it back and pushed it into her bag. Giving one last glance at them and the room, she exited and went back to the elevator. They had started talking about soccer again.

To her amazement, she didn't immediately break down sobbing. She emerged out into the bustling street, wishing that it would open and swallow her up.

She found her way over to her favorite park, and she sat on a bench by the pond, staring at the spot where she and her father had often performed. Those days with him...Singing and making music without all the pressure to excel, to compete for roles, to be better. She had sung for the pure joy of it then.

What would Erik say? He would be so angry. She was such a failure. Just one little audition...and she had botched it. He had been training her for weeks for this, had been merciless in his lessons, and she had let everything slide and had ruined it all. She wasn't afraid of him; but she was afraid of the disappointment he would have. After all that time! The weeks...months of training her, and she flubbed. She had been nervous, yes, but she hadn't actually expected it to go that badly.

That was it, then. Her sign. She was meant to sing for Erik, but not for anyone else. She couldn't; every time she had tried, she had failed.

The party after the gala, her mind reminded her gently.

She shook her head in response, ignoring a group of teenagers who walked by and looked at her curiously. The party had been a fluke chance. It hadn't actually mattered. It wasn't a role, it wasn't an opera. It had been a three-minute ballad, and then she had been done. The shows, her roles, her chances, all ruined because of her.

It took a while before she felt up to standing. She began the walk back to the Opera House, trying to come up with something to say when he saw her. Walking gave her more time to think, though her feet started to hurt in her shoes after a little while. Performing had been her only goal for so long. What else was she supposed to do? Maybe she could go to school, like Raoul had always wanted. She could study music. Then she doubted that Erik would be thrilled by that choice. He would probably be insulted that she wanted to learn music from anyone other than him. Or she could study French and teach, like Raoul had suggested. But the thought of being a high school French teacher was...not exactly appealing. She doubted she was cut out for that kind of job. Perhaps she should simply return to a desk job, a boring one that would actually pay her like the one she had had before she returned to Erik. At least there she could keep to herself and do her work and contribute something to her small two-person family.

She caught sight of the iconic rooftop, and she stopped, staring at it for a moment until a woman crashed into her. She stumbled sideways as the woman tripped a little and then tossed back her long, dark hair in apparent annoyance.

"Excuse me!" the woman snapped, her voice accented. "Watch where you go!"

Christine started when she saw that it was Carlotta Guidicelli. The Spanish diva gave her an impatient glance and then marched off. She hadn't even recognized Christine.

Watching her for a moment and feeling another wave of shame and anger wash over her, Christine continued on her way as well, entering into the back alleyway and unlocking the door.

She had thought he would be waiting, but the little room was empty, and she shut the door carefully behind her, grabbing the flashlight and clicking it on. She stood for several long minutes but then sighed. It was time. Erik was for sure going to be worried by now, and it was probably better for her to tell him instead of making him wait to find out. But she still had no idea what to say. The walk down was several minutes...Maybe it would clear her head a little and she would finally figure it out.

She gripped the flashlight tightly and set off. However, just as she turned the corner, she bumped into something solid, and she leaped back, her heart hammering as she held the flashlight up.

Erik threw a hand out to shade his eyes, the beam blinding him. "Stop that," he said.

"Sorry," she said, lowering it hastily. "You startled me, is all. I thought you'd be at the house."

"You were gone far too long for just an audition."

"I went for a walk in the park afterward," she explained. "Sorry I didn't call."

"No matter now," he said. "Come. You will tell me of your audition."

He held out his hand, and she took it, dreading the moment when she would have to tell him. All the humiliation from the audition was pounding through her with each step they took. She was grateful at least that he was there and was leading her down so she didn't have to pay attention to the hallways and which way to go next.

She imagined the conversation. How was the audition, my dear? Oh...it didn't go as well as I had hoped. Then he would be so understanding and calm and tell her that everything would be okay…

A humorless smile stretched her lips. Yeah, right. She would be lucky if she got through the story without Erik making death threats.

After another minute or so of walking, he ushered her into the house, flipping on the lights and shutting the door behind them. He smoothed his hair back before turning to look at her. His eyes narrowed instantly as he examined her face.

"What's wrong?" he asked slowly, suspiciously.

"It's fine," she said. "I'm fine." Her voice trembled.

"Tell me," he commanded. Without warning, she burst into tears, as if they had been building up and just waiting for the catalyst.

"Oh, Erik!" she wailed. "It was awful! It was—it was horrible!"

"What?" he questioned. "Tell me!"

"The—the audition!" she sobbed. "I was—it was awful! I was awful! I'm so sorry! I just...I ruined it! And they…" She trailed off, crying noisily, unable to continue.

Still obviously unused to comforting, he pulled her over to the couch and pushed her down, holding out his handkerchief. She took it and put her face in her hands.

"What are the names?" he demanded. "What did they look like?"

She shook her head, still mopping up her face. He quickly went over to her bag and opened it, rummaging through the contents, pulling out a piece of paper. He scanned it, his eyes narrow and glowing. Then he put it into his pocket. She watched, trying to stop the tears.

"What are you d-doing?" she whispered, hiccoughing on a small sob.

"I will take care of this," he replied, going to pull on his gloves and coat.

"Where are you going?" she said, wiping at her eyes.

"Out."

Quickly, she stood. "You're not going to—going to hurt anyone, are you?" she said shrilly.

"Not anyone of consequence," he said lightly.

"S-stop!" she said. "No! I don't want you to d-do this!" Her tears had stopped at last. "Erik, don't you remember what you s-said to me?" She hiccoughed again. "If you k-killed them, you would hurt me."

"I will not kill them," he purred, as if trying to soothe her. "I shall merely...encourage them to be wiser in their selection." Maybe if Erik had had a different background, she wouldn't have suspected the "encouragement" would be physically harmful, but...the way he looked and the way he said it left little doubt in her mind.

Christine shook her head wildly, her carefully-pinned curls finally abandoning their position and falling over her shoulders. "Please, just don't go," she begged. "Don't do anything to them. They're just—they just...Please, Erik." She walked over to him and took his hand, trying to calm him as well as herself. "It's okay. It was just an audition."

"But they do not—" he began angrily.

"Who cares?" she interrupted, sniffling. "I don't care what they think."

"You're lying," he snapped.

A few more tears slipped down her cheeks. "Yeah," she said, her voice cracking. "But it's okay."

"It is not," he said. "They are complete idiots if they did not—"

"They are," she agreed, interrupting him again, saying anything she could think of to calm him down, even things she didn't believe herself. "Still, not much we c-can do, right?"

"On the contrary. There is a great deal I can do."

He was angry and obviously annoyed at her, and she closed her eyes, exhausted already. What was she to do? She couldn't physically stop him from doing anything.

"Erik?" she said, giving up. "I'm just...tired, okay? Please. Promise me that you won't do anything."

He looked at her for a moment. "I will do nothing life-endangering."

"Nothing at all. Don't go see them. Don't talk to them. Don't threaten them. Nothing. For me. Please?"

Glowering, he paused and then said shortly, "If it is what my Christine wishes."

She sighed deeply, relief flooding through her. Then she wiped at her eyes with the handkerchief and saw that it was smeared with black. "I guess I should clean myself up," she said. "I'll be right back."

In the bedroom, she exchanged the pale pink dress for soft clothes and some socks, and then she returned, pulling him to the sofa to sit next to him, feeling somewhat peaceful for the first time in...hours.

At his request, she told him what happened at her audition, ignoring the way he scoffed or clenched his fist occasionally. She tried to be objective and fair...Looking back, she did seem pretty useless. Months employed at the Opera House with nothing to show for it...A girl in a pink dress, nervous and timid, apologizing for everything, the exact opposite of a confident and strong performer. Ugh. She was so stupid sometimes.

"Are you okay?" she then asked after she had finished, looking up at him. "You're really quiet."

"Fine," he said, staring at the wall.

She smiled. "Thanks for listening," she said softly. It had helped a little that he had listened to her, and she took his hand, pressing her thumb to his ring, grateful that he was beside her. With another little sigh, she scooted closer to him and put her head on his bony shoulder. At least he was there for her. And she knew he always would be.