The Art of Manipulation || Phantom of the Opera & Loki the God of Mischief ||

- Paris 1870 -

I was about to venture somewhere else when I heard the littlest one say, "Do you think that's where Christine goes every night? With a man?"

I heard the sarcasm in the other chorus girl's voice, "Christine? Innocent, pure, sweet Christine? Like she would ever go out with a man at ungodly hours to do ungodly things."

I smiled to myself. Everyone secretly wondered where little angelic Christine went when she thought everyone else was asleep. Christine told them she goes to the chapel to pray and light a candle for her deceased father, the great violinist Gustave Daaé.

Gustave and I had great times together when he was alive. Christine never saw me however. I was only a voice inside her father's head, guiding his fingers as he played. He had called me the Angel of Music.

Gustave had passed that idea of the Angel of Music down to his little daughter before he died. The Angel of Music was meant to comfort her and be her fictional companion once he was away, leaving her an orphan. And then when Erik caught sight of the little Christine...

When I learned of Erik's lessons with Christine I wasn't sure what I thought of the whole thing. Christine had said something to me about her Angel of Music, but at the time I hadn't thought anything of it. She was a young girl who was very close to her father. I figured she would, of course, still carry on the thought of his Angel of Music as a way of holding onto him. It wasn't until that one late night I had wandered around the opera house, stretching my ears, that I understood the full extent of her belief. I had heard her in the chapel, speaking to someone. That first night I had only heard her voice; my powers to hear everything still not fully developed. Then, on the second night, I had gone out again, this time closer to where the chapel was located deep inside the Opéra Populaire. From the shadows I watched Christine's petite figure gracefully walk down the dark steps. I heard the fabric of her dress move as she knelt down and the spark of the match she lit to light the candle. That's when he came, that's when I heard him. Him. The Angel of Music. Not me. But him.

"Christine, Christine, Christine."

The sound had been so soft, so pure, that even I thought it was an angel singing. Can you imagine? Me, the Goddess of Music, convinced that I had heard an angel.

Christine answered him, calling him her Angel. I pressed close to the wall, listening with every part of my soul. The longer I listened the deeper I fell into his trance. It was as if his voice clung onto my ankle like a heavy weight and was dragging me down into a bottomless ocean, comforting darkness devouring me, protecting me, sending me to a place where all my suffering ceased.

He continued to speak to her, guiding her in how to sing, occasionally singing himself. His instructions were actually quite good. Where he had learned such tips? Could this voice be just that; just a voice? A voice without a body? An angel?

I kept my hand on the wall, the vibrations created by the angelic voice guiding me to its source. If there was a source.

I had crept so slow, so carefully, not wanting to lose this magical sound. Not wanting to lose this feeling. Not wanting to lose him.

I remember the thrill I had felt when I discovered the sound of not two heart beats - mine and Christine's - but three. It came from behind the thick wall, the East wall. Listening closer I found that there was a small room, one of its walls the back wall of the chapel; the wall behind the candles. I stood at the wall beside it, outside the chapel. I closed my eyes and listened, the voice louder than ever. I shut out the rest of the opera house, focusing only on the heart beating on the other side of the wall. Behind my closed eyes I could envision the blood pumping through his veins. I could hear it surge to the tips of his fingers and toes and back to his heart. From the amount of time it took for the blood to return to his heart I could tell he was a tall man, a slender man with broad shoulders and strong limbs. A man. Not an angel, but a man.