A Nightingale's Mate

A/N: This is for all the delightful people who wanted Erik and Christine together. A mixture of Kay and the 2004 movie.

When love is not madness, it is not love.

-Pedro Calderon de la Barca

xxxx

The Unseen Genius

A cold wind bearing the grit of coal and dirt scoured him, eerily reminiscent of the arid, sand-laden winds of Persia. Erik breathed deeply of the air of his home country, relishing the faint snatches of lyric French the wind brought to him. After a decade of wandering, an absurd sense of nostalgia fluttered in his breast. Even with his blighted childhood, France was home. The heavy cloth of his cape billowed out in elegant folds and Erik tucked his chin to keep the low-slung fedora from exposing the white mask that covered the right side of his face to the glare of the gas lamps. The wet cobbles gleamed an unearthly gold in their wavering light.

With an obligatory courtesy, he tossed a few bills in the direction of the brougham driver. He moved with catlike quiet across expanse of cobbled road, pocked here and there with slushy piles of dirty snow. His breath misted in the thin January air. The door was locked, of course, but quickly acquiesced under the nimble persuasion of Erik's skilled fingers.

The elegant walls of the Opera House embraced him like the arms of a lover. Erik padded through the darkened halls like a dewy-eyed pilgrim, the hem of his cape penitently kissing the polished marble floor. He knew and cherished every tile, every column, every mortared joint. After months of squalid accommodations aboard a wretched excuse of a ship, the rich opulence that surrounded him saturated his senses, glutted him with beauty. His quiet cathedral of music . . . this was a homecoming more profound than that of simply nation and language. The Opera Populaire welcomed her lord and master.

An elegant black-gloved hand caressed the smooth marble banister, and Erik remembered with a faint smile the many times he has slid down it as a feral, dirty boy. Minette looked on with horror, no doubt regretting her decision to smuggle him from the gypsy fair all those years ago. Guilt assailed him and a fresh spurt of pain seeped from the old scar. He had given her many causes to regret her unfortunate act of kindness. Last he'd heard she was a respectable ballet mistress now, happily married to her precious Pierre. He would have to speak to her eventually, he supposed, if he was to live here.

The Populaire's darkened silence reproached him for his long years of absence, but reluctantly yielded her secrets as Erik triggered the trap door at the center of the first landing. He leapt lightly down as the aperture closed, casting the hexagonal chamber of mirrors into complete darkness. The lack of light didn't trouble him. A darkness deeper than hell existed within his mind. Hadn't he taken this design—the room of mirrors—once a childish product of boredom and mischief and used it for the khanum's twisted pleasure?

He descended the five levels in a dull thrall of exhaustion. It was only when the portcullis closed and a brace of candles lit that Erik breathed a sigh of mingled relief and melancholy. His pipe organ was the forlorn cave's only extravagance. His throne of music.

He would have to expand to fit the riches he had acquired during his travels, a stable for César . . .

A bath was forefront on his mental list.

Erik could still taste the fetor that hung over the shah's capital of Teheran, the film of dust and human misery seeped into his pores, along with the blood spilled as the khanum's favorite assassin. Across the barren landscape of exhaustion surged a wild typhoon of hate at the thought of that spoiled, bloodthirsty woman who was so dreadfully fascinated with the wreckage of his face. 'Half angel, half demon. Behold my Angel of Doom!' she crowed. The black leather of his gloves whined as he clenched his fists.

Praise your Allah that you are half a world away! He thought blackly.

Erik sighed; the anger ebbed from him, boiling water trickling through a sieve with a petulant updraft of steam. He had drunk his fill of blood, of killing. At first, under the wild grip of hashish, single combat slaked the unholy lust for blood that lurked within him, that of a beaten animal lashing out mercilessly at a world that had shown him the same. Later, a destructive spiral of drugs served to numb the pain, hold the demons at bay . . .

He shrugged off the cape, wishing he could shed the memories as easily. While his escape from Persia was far from amicable, at least he survived with a modicum of his fortune intact—not to mention the lingering shreds of his sanity. The wanderlust of his teenage years had long since been purged from his system and he was weary of humanity. He felt far older than his twenty-six years, having done and seen too much of the world's cruelties in his travels. The softer emotions: kindness, compassion, love . . . they were so easily crushed, ground to dust under the blind, clawing necessity of survival.

None of it mattered now.

He was content to stay here, in the cold, quiet solitude of his home for the rest of his life.

XXX

Wrapped in a gauzy cloak of grey mist early in the morning, Erik hovered in the shadows, watching the progress of the dockmen he hired to bring him his things. César looked well, prancing proudly on the line, arching his muscled black neck, glad to be free of the confines of the ship. The dozen assorted boxes and crates held all of his worldly possessions: his designs and sketches, his clothes, his magician's tools, rare medicines and poisons spanning the entire continent of Asia, and the veritable dragon's hoard of gold and jewels he'd acquired—both by reward and by theft—stowed safely in a lockbox he designed himself. It would take a talented thief years to dismantle it.

He watched, with mounting ire, as his belongings were thrown carelessly to the ground. The lid of one battered chest buckled, spilling several books—priceless originals. And now their spines were cracked!

"If this is the way you handle my belongings, I shudder to think what would become of those of one who paid you less," he hissed, stepping into the light. The man in the cart froze, hands fastened on the handle of a trunk. His partner stepped down from the wagon's high seat. He scurried to retrieve the books, glancing nervously at the mask every few seconds. Impatience built in Erik, a quick flash of anger.

Oh, what a fine day it would be when he no longer had to endure such inane conversation, such fumbling stupidity!

"W—we didn't see you there, Monsieur. Uh . . . we're sorry about your book . . ." Erik snatched the book so quickly the man stared at his filthy hands as if they could somehow offer him a clue to the book's whereabouts.

"The Vedas in their original Sanskrit. Have you read them?" Erik drawled, words dripping with scathing mockery. The man blinked as if he was speaking a different language. Erik made a terse gesture, suddenly weary.

"Unload the cart and get out of my sight."

They hastened to obey, with far greater care.

"Stop!" he barked as they began to depart.

The driver froze in place, hand poised on the buggy whip. Years ago, Erik had learned to harness the hypnotic potential of his voice. It was his power, his tool, emotion incarnate, beauty made audible. A sharp command from him could urge even the most thickheaded into immediate obedience.

"Did you find what I asked for?" the words fell like hailstones, hard and cold. That particular tone worked wonders with recalcitrant masons, lazy servants and slovenly dockmen.

"Oh oui, Monsieur. Pardon," the first man said, pulling a small package from his coat. Erik seized it, and tucked a few discreet bills into the inner coat pocket with well-placed sleight of hand.

"Merci. Good day, gentlemen," Erik bade with a slight bow.

Erik melted into the shadows, clutching his morphine to his chest, already eager for the burning prick of the needle and the sweet, numbing relief it brought.

XXX

Minette Giry eyed her new ward with unguarded concern. A normal girl of seven years would be asking effusive questions about the bustle and glitter of Paris, eager for distraction after long weeks of the slow crumbling of her father's mortal body, and weeks more enduring the tedium of travel. Meg had, laughing with desperate gaiety after Pierre died.

But not Christine.

She sat silent as a churchyard angel, solemn brown eyes staring sightlessly out the window. Her hand was limp and cool within Minette's grip, impassive to the comfort offered. The tragedy of her air worried Minette. She mourned her father with a stark and unnatural intensity. Christine was so delicate, a fragile waif of a girl, her pale face dominated by wounded eyes and framed by that improbable mane of brown curls. Minette strove to break the yawning silence.

"I think you will like the Conservatoire, Christine. All of the singing instructors are very kind-"

"I don't want to sing," she replied softly, the first words she'd spoken since Gustave breathed his last, muttering a promise about an 'Angel of Music.' The ephemeral worry crystallized into fear.

"Whyever not, my dear? You sing so beautifully. I'm sure your papa would want you to sing."

"I will never sing again," Christine said, the faintest quaver belying the steel in her tone. Minette forced a weak smile of encouragement.

"Very well then. Perhaps you would like to join the ballet corps? My daughter Meg is studying to be a ballerina, she is about your age." Christine smiled a little, a very adult understanding in her eyes.

"I'd like that," she whispered, squeezing Minette's hand, as if to comfort her. The rest of the ride through Paris' clogged avenues was passed in silence.

Disembarking outside the Populaire, Minette led Christine on an abbreviated tour. Monsieur Lefavre gave an obligatory hello, accepting Christine into the ballet corps with a sloppy signature. Minette introduced Meg to Christine and left the two girls to play in her chambers while she attended the few legal matters that remained of Christine's inheritance and wardship in her cramped office.

Minette sighed and discarded her shawl and bonnet onto the back of a chair. The lamp had gone out and she muttered a soft curse as she fumbled for the drawer that held the matches. Her knuckle throbbing after rapping it against a lead paperweight, Minette at last succeeded in lighting the cursed lamp. A wavering bubble of golden light illuminated the desk—and the tall figure lurking in the corner. Minette uttered a small cry of alarm, shrinking back against the desk as one hand flew up to cover her mouth. Like a douse of cold water upon her head, she recognized the white mask covering the right half of his face.

Nipping at the heels of her alarm was a curious conglomeration of surprise, joy and anger.

"Erik," she whispered, giving a name to the looming apparition. He bowed elegantly.

"Good day, Madame Giry. You look well," he murmured. That simple sentence, spoken in his unbearable mellifluous voice, washed over old wounds. Numbed, but not forgotten.

How long had it been?

Twelve—thirteen years?

Minette's eyes traveled over him. Gone was the dreadfully thin thirteen-year-old boy, the feral and fiendish child emperor of the Opera House. A man stood in his place, elegant in black evening dress and cape. The left side of his face was starkly beautiful; his chiseled features pale and narrow. Somehow, his beauty made the mask that much more heinous, and perversely alluring. He exuded waves of latent danger that thrilled the animal senses, suggesting depth and turmoil behind the glacial calm of his blue eyes. Those gelid eyes bore into her with his usual intense scrutiny, waiting with a gentleman's banal patience to see what she would make of the situation. He had matured in his years abroad. She smiled weakly.

"If you'll pardon the cliché, my how you've grown!" she murmured. Even Erik's laugh was musical, a brief burst of rich, masculine mirth.

"The interesting thing about clichés is that they often contain a kernel of truth," he observed.

A quick feint of his gloved hand produced a silver crucifix studded with garnets at the Christ's nailed limbs.

"For you, Minette. A belated wedding present," Erik said gently. Minette held out cupped palms to accept it, tears gathering in her eyes. The metal cross was cool and the delicate chain tickled as Erik lowered it into her hands. A gesture of apology—and forgiveness. She remembered all too clearly the night he left.

Sixteen-year-old Minette stood shivering on the banks of the lake near his home. The air was damp and as frigid as a tomb in winter. Erik's cave was barren and empty save for stacks of books, floor length mirrors covered with sheets, and the magnificent pipe organ he'd spent meticulous hours building. A few candles offered light but not warmth. The only heat was the anger blazing in Erik's eyes.

"You're marrying him?" he hissed, his skeletal body held in the tense, deceptively calm pose of a cobra about to strike. Minette staggered back, placing a table between them for fear of his anger.

He had such a terrible temper . . .

All her practiced words, all her careful arguments slipped away like forgotten notes of music. Erik filled this underground cave as he had filled her life in the two years since she had rescued him from the gypsy fair. Since that fateful night, her world existed in a near constant state of crisis, torn paradoxically between guarded affection and mounting resentment. Constantly trying to temper his wild schemes and pranks, constantly worrying that he would be discovered and tried for murdering his master, constantly satisfying his insatiable thirst for knowledge with all the books she could find.

She was world-weary at sixteen—all because of this little . . . tyrant!

Pierre, sweet, gentle Pierre, he was her comfort and she loved him. The weight of his ring on her finger, adorned with its tiny diamond, gave her courage.

"Yes. I'm marrying Pierre Giry. I don't understand why this upsets you so," she said coolly. Though she knew why. Marrying Pierre bought her freedom—blessed distance from Erik's overbearing, all-consuming presence. Tantamount to abandonment in his eyes.

The black bandit's mask covered Erik's face from hairline to upper lip and succeeded in concealing any clue to his expression. Minette thought she saw a flicker of emotion in his eye, thinning the line of his mouth.

"No," he said in that wickedly sharp tone that seemed to cut her with razors, "you will not marry him." Minette flinched, like a slave under the threat of her master's whip. How dare he use his angel's voice as a weapon against her!

"I will!" she snapped back mutinously, "I love him!" Erik folded his arms over his thin chest. Even through the fabric of his white shirt, Minette could count his ribs.

"Then I will haunt you like I haunt this opera house. I am a very good ghost. I nearly drove my mother mad before I was ten. Your Pierre won't last long."

"No!" Minette's howl was like that of a cornered animal. Some part of her went cold at Erik's sparse words. She knew nothing of his past, or his family. Minette pushed pity and sorrow aside, submersing herself in a hateful rush of anger.

"For the love of God, Erik! I saved your life and this is how you repay me? I wish I-" she bit off the end of the sentence, seeing the dangerous glitter in Erik's eyes.

"Go on, say it," he urged softly.

His shoulders sagged and Minette was assaulted by the magnitude of his loneliness and the brittle pride that hid it. His pain was more unbearable than his anger. When she only stared into his broken eyes, he snarled, "Say it!" The tears in her eyes spilled over and the words emerged from the deepest, darkest part of her soul.

"I wish I had never laid eyes on you!"

Erik became curiously tranquil, all of his quivering energy ebbing away.

"Don't spare me another thought, Minette. Go marry your Pierre. You will never see me again."

And he was gone, heedless of her crying his name.

"I didn't mean it, you know. I didn't—and don't—regret saving you. I was a stupid child who didn't know what it meant to have someone in her charge," Minette whispered, pulling the crucifix over her head and tucking it into her gown.

"Thank you, Minette." he said quietly, "I have said and done much, but there is nothing I regret more than pushing you away. You, who saved me from a life of degradation and squalor in some distant French prison." His simple, heartfelt apology touched the lingering poison of resentment in her heart, healing it. Minette ducked her head, swiping away the tears on her cheeks. A twist of his elegant hand produced an embroidered handkerchief. She accepted it with a murmur of thanks and dried her tears. Minette craned her neck to see his face, struck once more by his size.

Questions boiled in her mind.

"Where have you been? Why have you come back? What is that?" she exclaimed, pointing at the dark knot in his sleeve exposed when he tucked away the handkerchief. Rope? Why would he have rope up his sleeve?

"So many questions, Minette!" he drawled, his visible brow arched in supercilious amusement. He gestured toward the chairs in her tiny office.

Minette took a seat and watched in fascination as Erik swept off his cloak and slid into the vacant chair with nonchalant grace. The way he moved . . . it was less like the quick, darting grace of his childhood. Now it was more regal, a slow unfolding majesty of movement, coordinated by the music within him. Once the selfish prince of the Opera House, now he transcended effortlessly into kingship. His long-fingered hands folded under his chin, he eyed her with gentle seriousness.

"I have questions of my own. I see you are in mourning dress. May I ask after the deceased?" Minette's throat tightened and she fiddled with the crucifix, the charm now warmed by her touch.

"He was a very dear friend. His daughter is now orphaned—she's only seven."

"My condolences," Erik offered. The tears fell faster and Erik returned the handkerchief. Minette dabbed and sniffled, her grief over Gustave shifting to the years-old wound of her husband's death.

"And Pierre . . ." she trailed off, blowing her nose, "He died three years ago. Our Meg was only four."

"Oh Minette, I'm sorry." Erik's voice broke over her in a warm wave.

Slowly, deftly, he began to sing, a low soothing lullaby that smoothed the rough edges of her grief. Minette sighed, surrendering to the singular power of his voice. When he released her from his song, she felt curiously languorous, as if he had wrapped her in downy blanket of dreams. He rose with barely a whisper of sound.

"My mind has touched the farthest horizons of mortal imagination and reaches ever outward to infinity. The world has offered me the riches of its bounty and I am . . . unimpressed. I am content to live in my peaceful solitude. But I will need a liaison with the outside world. If you would like the post, meet me on the banks of the lake this evening."

XXX

The next months passed in a blur of happy activity. No, 'happy' was the wrong word. Erik was quite sure he had never known happiness. Contentment, satisfaction, a quieter, more subtle fulfillment reigned in his world. With Minette as his mouthpiece, the materials he required were bought and he spent incalculable hours expanding and furnishing his home in the cellars. With five levels separating himself from the upper world, Erik did not trouble himself with silence. Instead of a crude pallet on the floor, he created a small bedroom furnished with a magnificent bed crafted to look like phoenix. He added on a stable for César with a revolving wall that fit into the Populaire's own stable. A bathroom and simple kitchen completed the design.

King Hades would envy Erik's realm!

In winter's quiet darkness, he took César on long rides down the Bois, or spent an evening comfortably immured in Box Five. True, La Carlotta's butchery of perfectly mediocre music gave him cause to want to claw at his ears, but even the Populaire's dismal chorus line could not tarnish the sense of homecoming he felt, of a quiet, domestic existence surrounded by a beautiful building and beautiful music. Maybe here, he could sleep without nightmares. Maybe in time, he could break the morphine addiction that could eventually kill him.

Maybe . . . maybe . . .

As winter softened in the first tender unfurling of spring, a vague restlessness gnawed at Erik's prized contentment. His home was well expanded, and furnished to his exact specifications. The impetus to create ate at his bones, but every time he sat at his organ to write, or rosined his bow to play, the resulting notes affronted him in their fatuousness, their disgusting banality. He noted wryly that it was a minor miracle his violin survived his violent handling when he threw it down in a fit of self-loathing.

His haunting the Opera Populaire began purely by chance.

Drawn from his solitude by this vague itching urge, Erik paced the deserted halls, not caring to disguise the sound of his step or the sound of his cape. In truth, he thought himself quite alone in the wee hours of the morning. A soft gasp caught his attention. He whirled around, his cape eddying behind him like dark wings. One of the ballet rats looked up at him from the orchestra pit, face set in a comical mien of slack-jawed surprise, revealing several missing molars. An irrepressible mischief rose up and he melted into the shadows. Using well-placed ventriloquism, he made it so the walls echoed a soft, creepily maniacal laugh. As the girl scurried back to the dormitories, Erik remembered his puerile post of resident ghost, bragging to Minette on his skills of haunting.

Why not take up the role?

After Persia, perhaps such innocent diversion would drive away the spell of uninspired tripe taking shape at his organ bench.

So began the midnight games of hide and seek with the ballet rats that were deliriously scandalized by glimpses of him. Those who saw him embellished their tales, and those who did not made up ones of their own. Soon, every mishap on set was blamed on the anger of the Opera Ghost, or, the appellation he preferred, The Phantom of the Opera. So picturesque! So dashing! And who was he to hamper their poetic license? The words of the story were the teller's to twist and change. Truth was irrelevant.

One night, while taking tea, Minette eyed him with guarded suspicion. He arched a brow, taking another sip of truly awful tea with polite indifference. During his travels, he had found a preference for Russian tea, tangy with lemon.

"I've been hearing stories lately about a ghost. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Erik?" she asked, in her stern ballet mistress's voice. Vaguely irritated by her quelling manner, Erik bristled.

"And if I did, my dear Minette?" her gimlet stare did not alter, but the slightest of smiles touched her thin lips.

"Then I would ask you to keep it at simple mischief: scares, ventriloquism. No dropping set pieces on La Carlotta if her singing displeases you!" Erik laughed, amused by the image.

"Of course, Madame. Though I might write the management. I've so far been an unpaid ghost. Every opera house needs a ghost, you know."

Minette laughed delicately into her napkin, taking his words as simple jest, and they were—nothing but a simple joke to make his serious friend laugh. But as he bid her goodnight and descended the five levels to his home, the seed of an idea germinated and grew.

XXX

In hindsight, it was criminally easy to take advantage of Lefavre's naïveté. A picked lock and judicious use of his highly evolved powers of deduction revealed to Erik the manager's astronomical gambling debts, embezzlement ploys and ailing wife. A letter painted with decidedly menacing tones of veiled threat—written in red ink and signed with a cryptic O.G.—brought the manager trotting to Box Five like La Carlotta's pudgy spaniel. The theater was deserted, sets and rehearsals completed for this evening's production of The Magic Flute.

In three hours more, gaudily dressed patrons would be chatting in hushed tones and Carlotta and Piangi's hubris would be in high gear at the adulation of insipid crowds. Erik hid in a hollowed pillar, watching the stringy middle aged man mop his perspiring face with an air of barely suppressed amusement.

Lefavre's small dark eyes found the box empty and he nervously fumbled for his pocket watch. Perhaps a meeting with a ghost at three thirty-three in the afternoon was a tad ridiculous, but it suited Erik's current mood. He rolled his shoulders, growing very hot and uncomfortable in his current hiding place. His discomfort tempered the giddiness of the endeavor enough for him to pitch his voice in the correct tone of ghostly resonance and ire.

"I suppose I should be grateful that you are at least punctual, Monsieur Lefavre," said the Opera Ghost.

The man jumped, looking around in vain for the source of the mocking voice that seemed to echo in the empty chambers of his brain. Hat in hand, Lefavre bowed at the box's empty chair, the perceived origin of the voice.

"Indeed, Sir. When I received your letter, I knew at once that this was a matter of delicate . . . ah, timing." His own voice was small and timid. The poor man probably thought he was going mad.

"I suppose my threat of exposure had something to do with that conclusion," Erik observed. Lefavre correctly interpreted the humor in his tone and smiled weakly.

"Yes. Yes it was, Sir."

"Now, Jules if we are to enter into a business arrangement . . . Do you mind if I call you Jules?" He stuttered a negative reply.

"What may I call you, Sir?" asked Lefavre tentatively, then hurriedly adding, "If we are to do business, I would like to know your name."

"'Opera Ghost' will do nicely, Jules," Erik drawled magnanimously, "Or 'Phantom,' whichever you prefer. Now, as to our business arrangement . . ."

It went very simply after that. When Erik withdrew his threat of exposure of Lefavre's minor embezzlement schemes—either to the press or the emperor's gendarmes—the man was nearly tripping over himself in gratitude. Twenty thousand francs was a ludicrous sum by any estimation, one Erik was prepared to negotiate. Half of that was more than enough for any of his future endeavors.

But after a moment's pause, Lefavre accepted without a murmur of protest. In return for the Opera Ghost's silence, the exclusive privilege of Box Five, and the offer of increased revenue for the Opera House via influence with production, every month Lefavre would deposit twenty thousand francs in the velvet seat he now genuflected towards. Lefavre left the box with a bouncing stride, leaving Erik to puzzle over the curious consequences of extortion.

XXX

Erik wandered sleepless through the Opera House, the lower levels still bearing the dregs of the night's revels, a couple locked in a passionate embrace, a stage shifter passed out with his empty bottle held in slack fingers, another singing tunelessly as he tottered off to his bed. Erik scorned them, turning toward home when her heartrending cry reached him. Curious, Erik crept to the chapel, squeezing into a narrow space behind the mural of an angel.

There was a crack hidden in the angel's halo of dark hair and Erik peered through the slender aperture to find a curly-haired moppet kneeling at the brace of candles, their wavering light shining on the tracks cut by her tears.

Christine Daae, Erik thought, Minette's ward, the daughter of the Swede.

Erik recognized this fact from afar. Erik, who had seen every conceivable shade of human emotion and considered himself above such simple urges, was touched deeply by this child's bleeding grief. Her naked loneliness screamed at him, a cry in the dark.

"It's no use, Papa," she whispered between sobs, "there is no Angel of Music. Oh Papa, you promised! You promised me he would come, that he would protect me. Why, why did you lie?"

Her broken words seared through him. Inspiration appeared, fully formed from the hopeless quagmire of listlessness. He had been an Angel of Doom for Persia's khanum. Why couldn't he be the Angel of Music for Christine?

Slowly, gently, he began to sing.

The dawning joy in her eyes filled his cold heart with blessed warmth.

XXXXXX

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