Chapter Text
Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!
Tu pure, o Principessa,
nella tua fredda stanza,
guardi le stelle...
Erik sang quietly to himself, wandering behind the walls of vacant, dusty rooms. This wing of the Opera house was largely empty—of people, at least. Some of the rooms were crammed floor-to-ceiling with old props, costumes, posters, and more, but Erik couldn't care less about any of that. It was all junk anyway, or it wouldn't be stored in these dusty rooms. No, it was the lack of people that drew him here. This was the only place above ground that Erik felt free enough to sing, to hum, to make any noise at all. It was a nice break from the glorified basement below.
…che tremano d'amore
e di speranza.
The song was from Turandot, one of his favorite operas and one currently being prepared for rehearsal. Erik idly wondered if they would perform the opera in French or in its native Italian. It sounded much better in Italian, but performing it as such would only help the intolerable diva La Carlotta, who would surely be given the role of Turandot. Anything that made her life easier was to be avoided at all cost, in Erik’s book.
Ma il mio mistero chiuso in me;
il nome mio nessun sapra!
No, No! Sulla tua bocca lo diro quando—
“Who’s there?”
The frightened voice stopped Erik mid-phrase. The echo of his song was still resonating in the air when the girl spoke again.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
Erik froze on the spot. Was she talking to him? Had he been discovered?
Usually, the only way the residents of the opera house sensed his presence was through shadows or notes--nothing this blatant. He wasn’t sure what to do. The voice was coming from around the corner: the direction he needed to go to get out of this wing. And leaving had suddenly become an urgent necessity. But if he pressed forward, he risked being seen. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner and saw an unexpected influx of light. He jerked back into the shadows, surprised. Was his passage open to that room? Surely not. He couldn’t imagine having designed something so stupid. He risked another look, and saw that the light was coming from a rectangular hole in the wall, set into a shallow alcove. That’s when he remembered.
The two-way mirror had been installed mainly for Erik’s protection; to ensure he didn’t walk in on an occupied room. This wing wasn’t intended to be as empty as it was, and it was vital--crucial--that he never be seen. But as the years went on and the rooms stayed vacant, the mirror was covered with a dust-cloth and Erik had forgotten it was there. But now, the room was far from empty. Lamplight bathed the walls in an orange glow, illuminating costumes and shoes strewn on chairs and across the floor. It was clear that the occupant of the room had been in the middle of moving in when Erik interrupted her.
And then she stepped into the square light herself. She was young, twenty, maybe. Short for a dancer, but she had the right physique. Erik didn’t recognize her, but he could hardly tell any of the dancers apart except for the Giry girl, and that was only because of her mother. But this girl had long brown curls, where Meg’s were blonde.
The girl stood in the center of the room, blocking some of the light from passing through the mirror. She had a strange look on her face, something between fear and curiosity. She scanned the room, listening, but when no voice came she appeared to lose interest, and went back to her costumes with a shrug. Erik watched her for a moment, wondering who this girl was and why she had been given a dressing room in the most remote part of the building. Given her ever-expanding wardrobe, she was going to have a hell of a time running on and off stage from all the way back here. Perhaps he could send a note to the managers and make this poor girl’s life easier.
Erik observed her struggling with her costumes for a moment more, then continued quietly past the girl’s room. He tried to shake off his uneasiness. He'd been startled to see that foreign light, to remember the long-forgotten mirror. If he'd recalled its presence sooner, it might have proven quite useful in his observations of the opera house. But with this girl occupying the room, it would be difficult to get any use out of it. And how mortifying it would be, if he passed the alcove as she was dressing! Yes, he had to get her out of there at once.
But that letter would be written later. It was almost time for the night's performance-- The Marriage of Figaro. The last show of the season, before summer rehearsals began for the next. He didn't particularly like the show--it was no Turandot, but he felt obligated to see it one last time. His days would become far more boring when the performances ended, filled with nothing but eavesdropping on rehearsals and bitter letters to the managers regarding flaws in the casting and choreography. So he descended the many steps to his cavernous home below the opera house, dressing in his finest evening suit before taking his place in box five.
“It was him! I know it was!” Christine whispered fervently to Meg as they unlaced their pointe shoes. The incident had occurred just before the performance began, and it was the first chance Christine had gotten to relay her story. Meg tried to keep up, but honestly had difficulty believing her friend's story.
Meg rolled her eyes. “You probably just heard Piangi warming up in his dressing room, or... something like that.” She sounded less confident than she felt.
“You know where my dressing room is!" Christine countered. "How would I hear anyone from back there?”
Meg frowned. It was a good point. “Pipes? I don’t know. It’s a better explanation than yours, though. The voice of your dead father? Really, Christine.” She scoffed.
“No, not him,” Christine sighed. “An Angel. The Angel of Music! He’s come to teach me, just like Papa told me.”
Meg felt a twinge of sympathy run through her. Gustave's death had hit her friend hard--it still hurt her, even after three years. Perhaps it was harmless to let her believe this fairytale.
“Look,” Meg said as gently as she could, “my feet hurt and I have a headache. Let’s just… figure it out tomorrow, alright?”
She could see Christine’s disappointment, could see that she wanted to go on about her father and this so-called angel. But she couldn't hide her relief when Christine said "Goodnight, then," and retreated to her bed. After hanging up her point shoes, Meg followed, and sleep took her in moments.
Erik nearly laughed aloud when he overheard the girl's proposal. An angel? That was hardly fitting. He was as close to being an Angel as a cat was to being a loaf of bread. It was a ridiculous notion. No, he had too many stains on his soul to be anything near angelic. In fact, given his past and his appearance, most would say his affinities lied with hell. Many had, in fact, to his face and behind his back. He had been called "demon", "gargoyle", "devil", and even worse more times than he could count. He had even been known as the Angel of Death during his time as an assassin. But when the girl, Christine, called him "Angel", it was with no hint of malice. In fact, there was a sense of reverence in her voice. And he had to admit it was refreshing to hear someone speak highly of him. The girl didn’t know anything about him of course, not really, but it still made Erik smile. He almost wished he was an angel, if only to please her.
He was much more careful in his corridors now, searching for other forgotten openings. But the only one seemed to be into Christine's dressing room, and he stayed well away when he could. But one day, returning from the roof, he hadn't been thinking, and his feet walked their familiar path instead of the long way he'd not yet become accustomed to taking. He reached the end of her hallway before realizing where he'd gone. He sighed. Backtracking would take at least twenty minutes, especially when circumventing the traps he'd set at random intervals. It wouldn't hurt to sneak by just this once. He'd not make a habit of it, but just this once, it would be alright.
He'd taken a few steps when he heard it, echoing softly around the corner. A clear soprano voice, singing a tune he didn't recognize, in a language that sounded harsh to his ears. German? No--Swedish. It was not one of the many languages he could speak with fluency, but he recognized enough words to know she sang about fishing. Intrigued, he followed the sound. Had they moved another girl to this wing? A vocalist? If so, she was merely a chorus girl, judging by the poorly-developed technique. But, though Erik didn't know the words she sang, he could still feel the emotion the girl concentrated into her voice. It was impressive really, the conviction with which she sang--even though her breath support was weak and her higher notes shallow. This was a song about loss, there was no question. A drowning, then? He couldn't be sure.
As Erik travelled the passageway, he tried to determine which room the voice was coming from. It would be hard to know for sure; the passages had such confusing acoustics. He'd have to go to the next level and look down to be sure. He passed another room and another, and was coming up on the room with the mirror, the dancer's room. He slowed his steps, moving as quietly as possible so as not to rouse her suspicion once more. He glanced into the alcove as he passed, out of simple curiosity, and stopped dead. There was no vocalist, he realized. The voice came from her, from the dancer.
It would have been an unimpressive voice, had it belonged to a true singer. Clear and expressive, but lacking any technical skill. But this dancer could not have been classically trained, not in vocal technique. Was it possible that she sounded so good untaught?
She turned towards the mirror, and any remaining doubt vanished. He could see her lips moving, her chin bobbing a little too much as she sang higher. The voice was hers, alright. And it was being wasted. She'd never get to develop it, he realized, not while she was so focused on her dancing. Not ever, most likely. What a shame. If she sang this well now, Erik struggled to imagine her potential if fully trained. Did she even know what a gift she had? Erik thought back to her conversation with the Giry girl. "He's come to teach me," she'd said. At the time, Erik had paid no notice to these words. But now he wondered what she meant by them. Teach her to sing? Is that why she sang now, to lure back whatever presence she thought she'd heard days earlier? To lure him back?
The song ended, and with a deep breath she began again, sounding fatigued, but far better than he would have expected from someone with her lack of training. Whatever her purpose, she had certainly gotten his attention. Erik did want to teach her. He wanted to coax her talent from whatever place it hid inside her, to hone it, to transform her into an instrument of beauty.
And she wanted a teacher. An Angel.
A dangerous thought crossed his mind. What if... what if he played along? He would pretend to be this Angel, give her what she wanted, in return for the chance to shape her voice. He was such a lonely man, after all. This girl could prove to be a distraction to him at least, if not a friend. And it would be nice to have a legacy to leave behind. A protégé of sorts. And best of all, she never need know of Erik’s evil deeds, or his disfigurement. He would teach her from the shadows, never revealing himself, posing as her Angel of Music.
It was practically perfect. Why not?
Erik shook himself. There were a thousand reasons "why not". What a stupid idea. He dismissed it and forced himself to turn away, to continue down the corridor and ignore her ringing voice.
But even after days had passed, the notion stayed stuck in his mind. It gained traction with every passing hour, clawing its way to the front of his thoughts, until he finally found himself standing before the rectangle of light, peering through the murky glass. One last protest of this is insane! invaded his mind, but there was no going back now. With more certainty than he’d had about anything in a long time, Erik parted his lips and sang:
“I am your angel of music.”