Christine felt like an absolute mess.

Her hair, always a large, curly mass atop her head, her skirts always ruffled from moving through the thin, cramped passageways behind the stage, and recently, she was constantly finding her forearm covered in ink. She had no clue how she managed to get it there, the dark, smudged imprints of what looked like bars of music - she assumed it rubbed off of her sheet music, but why was this suddenly happening so frequently when it had never happened before? She wondered if perhaps the ink used on the sheet music was now of a lower quality, or maybe she simply was just becoming messier as she grew more anxious about her career at the Opera house.

She knew she wanted to sing, but she had no idea how. She had no teacher, and no one in the Opera house seemed to find her worthy of instructing. Madame Giry would gently remind her of her talent as a dancer when she expressed her love for singing, and she knew it was the stern, but kind ballet master's way of reminding her of her place in the Opera house. She would never sing an aria in the center of the stage, she would always be performing pliés, perhaps jetés if she was lucky, in the background.

Still, she snuck the sheet music away from the sopranos, studied it in her bed in the dormitories late at night, softly singing under her breath. She'd often fall asleep like this, staring at the notes into the latest hours of the night, waking the next morning to find her roommate Meg Giry shaking her shoulders and looking at her forearm, covered in smudged bars of music, in disapproval.

Erik typically spent the late hours of the night composing, however, he'd decided to take a stroll through the secret passages of the Opera house one night when he'd heard the most angelic voice. Untrained, rough, and even out of tune, but soft, kind and pure. Since then, he'd spent every night standing by the wall he'd heard the voice behind, listening to the songs she softly sang, shaping her voice in his mind, mentally developing her repertoire. Often times, he would even compose small fractions of an aria for her on the spot as he listened to her voice and imagined the places he could take it. He never seemed to remember to bring any parchment with him to write upon, so he would scribble every bar of music he could onto his left forearm, attempting to squeeze in as much of the music as possible as her voice soared in the room next to him. He would transcribe it onto paper himself in the early hours of the morning, when she had fallen asleep and her voice was nothing but an echo in the back of his mind.

Erik now spent the first half of every day polishing what he had composed sitting on the ground next to the wall of his Angel's dormitory, and rarely had time to check on the rehearsals for Hannibal occurring above him. However, one morning he decided to make the trip up to the Opera house, standing in the rafters and watching the dancers below. He mentally critiqued their movements, deciding which dancers he would have Madame Giry cut from the production. The Opera house had been spending far too many of their funds on additional dancers lately, and not enough on the sets that were once immaculate before the budget was put towards casting. He had noticed one dancer other than Madame Giry's daughter - a short brunette girl, seeming just a bit older than the young Giry, had completely perfected the dance, performing every move with such ease and poise, it seemed as though it took no effort at all. He was caught by surprise when at the end of the performance she stumbled, her pointe shoes causing her to slip to the ground, and she caught the arm of a piece of furniture that the stage managers had been rolling by - a long, green chaise lounge that would be used in the spring production of Il Muto. It was a nice piece of furniture, one that the Opera house had continually recycled throughout various performances. Her forearm fell against the expensive fabric, leaving a path of black ink against the lush green as she dragged down it. He was exasperated, wondering how the young girl could be so graceful one minute and so completely clumsy the next - she seemed nearly artistic in her dancing, painting such a portrait, creating such a beautiful scene, and she just as easily destroyed something the next moment. He nodded his head in disapproval, wondering just how the ink had gotten all over the dancer's arm to begin with.

Something about the dancer sparked his interest, though, and the dichotomy of her grace and messiness somehow caused him to gravitate towards her, as if she was a puzzle he wanted to find all the pieces of. He returned to rehearsals early the next day, so early that the ballet dancers were only warming up, several of them sitting cross legged on the floor as they stretched their arms and rolled their shoulders. He watched the young brunette girl, sitting in the corner, already finished with her stretches. She sketched in a notebook that was nearly full, likely trying to find a way to pass the time while the other dancers caught up with her. When she ran out of space on the final page, she looked at it for a moment, seemingly unsure of what to do. She then took the pen to her arm, drawing a single rose on her left wrist. He mentally berated her, wondering why such a beautiful young woman would tarnish her skin with ink, then realized his hypocrisy, remembering all the nights he had scribbled music notes onto his arm when he lacked paper. He looked down at his arm, wondering if there was anything left over from the night before, when he noticed something so impossible, so incredible, it simply couldn't be -

On Erik's left forearm was an identical black rose, the stem crawling up his arm to the top of his wrist where the petals unfolded.

From that moment on, Erik watched the brunette girl like a hawk. He realized the ink on her arm the previous day was from him, his musical markings from the night before, and he wondered how and why they were connected, desperately pondering what kind of insane force would attempt to bring such a beautiful (yet admittedly messy) angel and a pitiful monster together. After rehearsals ended, he followed the young girl - Christine, he had learned when Madame Giry had called out her name - to the dormitories where she retrieved the sheet music from under her bed and sat on the mattress studying it. He watched her through a crack in her door, and she hadn't even opened her mouth when it clicked in his mind - she was the angel, the angel of music - the music he'd heard, the music she'd brought him and the music he'd composed because of her voice. If there was some force trying to bring them together, he decided it was because together, with their talents combined, he was certain they could create the greatest performance the Palais Garnier had ever witnessed.

Erik gazed upon Christine as she sang, knowing she would be his muse for the Opera he'd already begun to work out the details of and planned to compose.

Erik began thinking of ways to bring Christine to him. When she had left her dormitory for rehearsals the next day, he tinkered with her mirror, adding a two-way mirrored glass in place of her average one, so he would be able to see her more easily. That was the beginning, at least. He could probably compose the Opera just by seeing and hearing her sing alone, but he knew he needed her voice for it to live to its full potential.

One night, he watched Christine through the mirror as she whispered to Meg about an Angel of Music. Her father had promised to send her one, and the young girl, only 20 years old but her heart even younger, seemed to still believe that he somehow would. A plan began to develop in Erik's mind, and it wasn't something he was proud of, but he knew it was the only way to get her to sing for him.

For the first time since arriving at the Opera house, Christine stayed in bed. It was her father's birthday, and she couldn't bear to see the light of day, knowing that he could not bask in the warmth of the sun with her - he could not share laughter and joy in the afternoon, could not play the violin as the sun began to sink in the horizon, could not tuck her into bed when the moon took its place in the sky. She slept until 10:00 AM, which was exceedingly late for her, then rose, fastening the belt of her robe around her waist and sitting back on top of the bed, staring at the wall across from her, hardly moving a muscle. When she finally looked down, though, she saw ink on her arm once again, completely unsmudged due to her lack of movement in the past few minutes. This time, what was written on her arm was clear, in stark, black ink:

I am your Angel of Music.

Christine nearly fainted. She immediately ran to her dresser, retrieving a handkerchief and wiping the ink away, but as soon as it faded, new words appeared in the same sophisticated, but slightly messy, script:

I am your Angel of Music. Come to the mirror.

She wiped the words once more and pulled her robe tighter around her, once again securing the belt around her waist and stood before the mirror. She stared at her reflection for a moment, unsure of what to do until she saw new words appear on her forearm. She looked down, eyes squinting at the words, too lightheaded to make sense of what was occurring. She could barely decipher the French words she normally spoke and read fluently as they sat on her arm, unwavering:

I would like to sing for you, Christine. Please look in the mirror and nod your head if you are willing to listen.

If this truly was her Angel of Music, she was glad he seemed to take note of how frightened he was, seemingly proceeding with caution in his message to her and respecting her boundaries, hopefully aware of the fact that she might not want to hear from an Angel of Music. Her mind beat against her, reminding her that Angels are not real - if they were, her father would've sent one much sooner, and this man was surely a ghost, a demon...yet somehow, she felt a strange pull as she looked up at her reflection in the mirror. Her gaze shifted to the side of her head, looking past herself, her eyes burning through the mirror as she straightened her posture and nodded her head resolutely.

And when he sang, she knew the Angel of Music had finally come to her.

Not wanting to overwhelm her, Erik did not immediately propose the idea of becoming her instructor and providing her with singing lessons until she was ready to take place as lead soprano, hopefully in the opera he would write himself. He simply sang for her, a short, simple piece he'd composed to convey the way her voice caused him to feel. It was a lullaby of sorts, a melody that called to him, to both of them now, when they were parted from each other, ringing in their ears at night:

I am your Angel of Music...come to me, Angel of Music…

Over the course of the next few weeks, Erik did not visit Christine at her mirror again - not to her knowledge, anyway. He attempted to gain her trust through communicating with her solely through writing, not wanting to overwhelm her with the sensation of hearing his voice alone in her room. It was difficult to catch her alone with her busy schedule anyway - he would eventually notify Madame Giry of his intention to instruct her, and hopefully she would provide them with a place to meet, perhaps grant a private dormitory or dressing room to Christine...for now, he built their odd relationship through short messages to her on her arm throughout the day. She would write back to him when she could, sneaking into the corner of the stage, facing away from the other dancers as she reached into her pocket, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping away his message before hastily scribbling her reply.

One day in particular, Christine's dancing was lacking, the energy visibly drained from her movements and the bags under her eyes dark and heavy set. She was fruitlessly attempting a plié when she noticed dark words form on her forearm in the corner of her eye:

Are you well, Christine?

She stifled on a sob, relief and sorrow simultaneously washing over her at the realization that someone had finally noticed her, finally asked her if she was okay. Living in the Opera house with no real family, and only one friend, Christine felt immensely alone, and simply knowing her Angel had noticed her lack of spirit was more than enough to liven herself up.
I am well now that I have heard from you, my Angel. Are you well today?
She wrote, then quickly wiped it off her arm as soon as it had appeared on his, replacing the words with new ones:
That is a rather silly question, I suppose. How could an angel be unwell?
He smiled mirthfully at her statement, yet an inexplicable sadness washed over him as he penned his reply:

Oh, but angels can be unwell, my dear. In fact, it happens quite often.

She frowned at his reply, and his chest filled with warm at the young girl's sympathy - though her voice is what had drawn him to her, as well as how frightfully clumsy she was, he was beginning to fall in love with her heart and mind quicker than he could stop himself. He did not even notice that she had finished writing her reply as his eyes remained focused on her berry stained lips, still tugging down at the corners.
He looked down at his arm once a considerable amount of time had passed, unable to tell if his earlier statement remained on her arm or if she had penned a new one.

Is it lonely being an angel?

His heart sank down to his stomach at the question, yet somehow also swelled at the display of the two traits Christine held that he favored most about her - her curiosity and her empathy. As he began to think of what to say, he realized he may have answered differently if someone had ask him if he was lonely this time last month. But today, as he felt the warmth rise in his chest and his heart beating once again, beating as it never had before, he composed the most honest reply he could. It was an answer an angel probably wouldn't give, but the words his weak heart knew he had to somehow express flowed from his fingertips onto his forearm, then appearing on hers:

Not since I met you, my child.