The feeling of the stage was something Christine Daae was very used to at that point in her career. Her heart was beating through her chest as the climax of each song came, the crescendos flowing into her finale which brought the crowd to its feet. The white of her dress, though thick in layers, kept her cool and steady on the performance wood, and the thick silver band on her hand warmed with the burning of candles and heat of a full theater of bodies. There was no shortage of fans at her performances in her hometown, yet Raoul always argued there weren't ever shortages anywhere for her concerts. The people rose, gloved hands exuding applause, and she smiled, cheeks red with delight. Oh, how she never tired of the roses and smiles on the people's faces. Slow and steady, her bow came, and happily the curtains took her place.

"You did wonderfully, Christine, as usual when we're here."

The Swedish countryside she called home always made her heart tingle and her vibrato extend magnificently. It was pure bliss.

"Thank you, Raoul. Who are the patrons tonight?"

They began to walk to her room as the stage quieted, and the roar of the crowd dissipated. They were leaving all a chatter about the performance.

"There are none but myself tonight."

Christine glanced sparingly at him, worried as she twisted the ring on her finger.

"You are but my manager, you cannot sponsor me."

"Tonight, Mademoiselle, you are home and I wanted you to enjoy it," he lavished, looking worried, concerned, and a plethora of other things that betrayed his affection for her.

She returned not his feelings, and Christine wouldn't ever change her mind on that fact. Her relationship with Raoul was business, his managerial skills wonderful, and his original patronship what got her the decadent career she enjoyed that day. Of course she'd known, and even been told by the man himself, that he harbored more than faith in her career, but it never impressed her or found her falling. In fact, she agreed to never court or marry, her singing her only career, as the thick, metal band about her wedding finger reminded her every moment.

"Raoul," she moaned, feeling redundant, "I've told you before-"

"I am not attempting to court you, Christine, I only want you to enjoy your time home. I am always vacant when in France," he explained, opening her dressing room door.

They were always temporary arrangements, never staying in one for more than a week's worth of performances, yet this one in Sweden, where the people knew her by Christine rather than Miss Daae, was one that felt more permanent, more home-like. Enjoying home would be a treat, and regardless of what the young man said, she didn't trust his friendly intentions. His offer, however, of the intimacy of home, compelled Christine into agreement.

"If you insist."

"I do," he spoke to her as she passed him, his eyes on her back and her every thought hoping he didn't get the wrong idea.

"May I change?" She hadn't the heart to face him, lest he be wearing the look of a hopeful fool.

"Take your time, Christine, I must get my hat," he told her, then the door clicked shut and her breathing returned.

Poor Raoul.

With now ample time to do what she would, Christine sat down, looking into the mirror of a familiar dressing room. Her features had changed since she'd first set foot in Sweden, but that was to be expected, for she was born there! A smile escaped when she thought curiously back to her father and mother, both of which had nourished her singing until they called in professionals to coach her talents. Christine figured she wouldn't be half as talented now if it were not for those expensive lesson she endured.

The pins fell out of her hair once tugged on by nimble fingers, and her excitement showed for a meal when her stomach voiced its hunger. Getting ready was an easy task, but preparing for the solo meal was not. Despite everything, she worried still that Raoul would take advantage of the situation… and the worry stuck. She startled when the door received a knock, and his voice wondered of her readiness.

"Coming!"

Deciding her fan was not worth the trouble, Christine opened the door and smiled politely, forgetting his eyes were looking more upset lately. She was to enjoy this!

The Swedish air was warm on her skin, though the night sky and ocean breeze made every humid inch of it pleasant. Her heart felt rested and simply right as they walked, her hand holding Raoul's elbow in grace. Silently, they went on, happened upon their restaurant, and were seated.

"Do you think we could come during winter one year?" She wondered as they glanced over menus.

"What for?" Raoul wondered at her, his focus completely upon his order, "Travel is a beast."

"I miss the snow, you always have me in Southern Italy or Greece when it comes."

"The cool air is bad for your voice, you know that," he offhandedly replied.

The menu couldn't keep her attention for long, as she acquired the same tastes as always when she was home. Blue eyes fell to watching the people around the small eatery, all chatting happily, most smiling, even a couple holding hands as they shared a dessert. Christine felt sick at the thought, her work far too important. Of course she understood why Raoul wouldn't let her come to the cold and harsh winters of Sweden to perform, but still, she ached for the taste of fresh air.

The corners of the restaurant were dark, and as candles flickered about, she caught the eyes of some of the patrons who would then lean and whisper of her. She blushed, what else could Christine do? Her fame was never something she gave into unless at home, when people would think far too highly of her status, expecting her to have changed. No, Christine Daae was still the same girl who sang to her father's violin in the streets. It wasn't her fault those Italian Opera managers happened upon her as her father was sick and offered her training. She didn't want her father to take sick just as she was to deny, to say she wouldn't leave if they still lived. Christine never imagined Gustave Daae would leave her presence, a life no longer viable in Sweden. She would have laughed if one told her they would have trained her for months, and she would take over the pedestal of Prima Donna, then be worthy enough of her own performances, concerts, and ceremonies. She was hired, loved, and Christine found herself with a career and betrothal to her work. What else was a girl to do?

Christine thanked the waiter as Raoul went to chatting about her next stop before her last performance tomorrow, somewhere in London. It was a nasty city, but she was not focused on it then. The glistening in one of the dark corners caught her eyes, like a moth to flame.

Curiosity would kill her one day, she was sure, but was that a mask on that man's face? Considering the daylight had gone, and candles only let her vision so far, Christine was sure she was seeing things. Her heart hammered in fear, but when the candle flicked again, brightening with some indescribable ferocity, she was corrected. The man wore only half a mask, his eyes darkened in their holes, but his chin and lips were completely visible. Startled by him, she gasped, but Raoul only stepped over it with a lilt and kept talking at her.

How he didn't realize her focus had shifted wasn't her main priority to discover. This mysterious man in a white mask was rival to any curiosity she'd ever explored. What she could catch in the dying of the candle was no more than glimpses of his hard features, though that could be attributed to the covering he wore. His suit, from what she gathered, was remarkably clean, and his stature only proved such. Christine felt jolted, as if her chair had been swept from beneath her, and she couldn't explain why, but it wasn't going away, even with her focus suddenly plastered to her companion.

Their food came, and their drinks were refilled, but Christine felt that none of it happened at all. She was startled such a man existed, and when he left? It was the defining moment of her being recognized because it was of contempt more than any other emotion one could muster up from the human arsenal of emotions. This masked-man looked right through her as if she'd never even come up in conversation around him. She felt almost offended that he wasn't even the slightest bit impressed, then she realized how terribly conceded she sounded to herself and looked back to Raoul.

She failed to realize the well-dressed man had had a companion of dark skin and obvious standing, but Raoul had started speaking again, so she couldn't focus on him much. What she caught of the masked-man's conversing was certainly not Swedish, nor English, nor French, the few languages she actually spoke. Raoul spoke quite the few more, yet Christine was not going to give away the fact that she had hardly listened to a word the man had said.

Later in the evening, when she'd returned to the hotel they were staying in, her heart beating quickly, haunted by the man, Christine had the odd feeling she was to be haunted by him, and it didn't go away until sleep took her fully.

My Dear Friend,

As I am sure you know by now, I have spent an entire year looking through every talent for you, coming home scarcely to those I enjoy, but I think my return is imminent! I stumbled upon a fine young singer in Denmark just recently, and I will be following her to Sweden! The soprano is of an unearthly quality, and I implore you head over at once! She has but a few performances in her home country, and performs not in the United States! Fresh talent, and quite the beauty, I think you shall enjoy it!

Hopeful,

Nadir Khan

The pull of this invitation was what had Erik Destler on a rocking boat, the sway sickening to his usually steady digestive system. The rush of the waves would be over soon, though, when he would disembark and meet Nadir for this performance. He had secured tickets to the Swedish Soprano's second to final performance, and it was with care he'd decided to come. The boat-ride had admittedly been a turn-off, but Erik braved the seas in hopes his friend had not failed him. Luckily, rumor and favors found him his information significantly fast when he'd asked for it, and learn of this soprano he did.

The masked-man was no fool, his tall and thin stature an intimidation at the best of times, if nightmare wasn't applicable, he stood out among the rest and was able to have favors owed to him. Christine Daae was sure to be the one Nadir spoke of, the insufferable Persian his outlet to the rest of the world that didn't very much enjoy him. Regardless, Erik packed his bags and decided for himself to see if the talent was worth convincing to have come to the states. If she'd allow, anyways. He'd been searching for fresh talent for years, and with the pictures he'd acquired, Nadir was true to her beauty. Still, only he knew true talent, and only true talent could be hired by him.

When the ship finally docked, Erik was the first off when the crowds had cleared, and he found Nadir almost instantaneously. His dark skin, and uncommon dress, made him an easy target in the sea of pale dresses, and paper-white skin.

"Old man, you finally came through," he muttered, avoiding eye-contact from the forced stares of the Swedes.

Erik Destler felt mildly attacked by the Swedish, and it seemed his English was recognizable, so he switched immediately to Nadir's native tongue.

"Did you find what I was looking for?"

"I did," the foreigner replied, his eyes not amused as Erik felt.

"I hope so, the ride here was atrocious. Christine Daae better be worth my leaving the concert hall," Erik hissed, his form tense as they rushed towards the hotel Nadir had secured.

"How-" the elder stuttered, seeming surprised until yellow eyes fixated, and there was no more question in the ways of the entrepreneur.

"Nadir, I thought you knew I had my ways by now? Have you spoken to this de Chagny, her manager? I want a private meeting with her, and I will settle for nothing less. My sway here is little, but I want things to be set up for if this goes well."

Nodding, his companion followed Erik flawlessly, as height was of almost no difference, and they were in their lodgings soon enough, the comfort of solidarity now Erik's friend. He felt more than safe in the darkness, like how a child felt in the arms of their parents. He assumed that, anyways, as the darkness really was what had raised Erik.

"We must eat, you stubborn artist."

"I'm a musician, don't clump me in the same category with all those insane bastards who think several dots on a canvas is art," he growled in response to Nadir.

"Just come on, Erik, I have reservations for a dark table in the corner."

The allure of Swedish delicacies and the privacy of a secluded corner -sadly occupied by Nadir and himself alone- made him tighten his cravat and head towards the door.

"Finally", his companion rolled his eyes, immediately walking as if there hadn't been a delay, "I feel like you don't want to hear her at all."

"I might already have. She could be like all the others," Erik admonished, his tone sharp and succinct.

They walked not far, and were seated immediately, a sudden rush seeking to come in after the clock had struck quarter after nine. Nadir explained how there had been the young singer's performance that evening, and everyone was probably spreading around for a solid meal. Erik had to unfortunately admit that all the things he was hearing of her were positive, praises befalling the soprano like drops of rain during a storm.

The restaurant paid no attention to him, and he was thankful for that fact. As much as it pained Erik to admit, his friend never failed to keep him at least moderately comfortable. His presence was prickly though, so it depended on the day.

"Well, I don't believe my eyes, that's her!"

Nadir seemed thoroughly impressed, but Erik had to turn his head in the candlelight to the point where he was sure his mask would be caught. He took the risk to see the soprano, however, and was not disappointed. She wore a dress fit for queens, accompanied by a male who she looked not interested in. Her eyes wandered, and as they finally found his corner, Erik shied away. There was no way his depressed eyes and darkened persona would allow her to see him more than she already had.

Her frightened eyes and whitened cheeks made the masked-man huff, and turn back to Nadir who just picked at the last of his food. Their meal had passed quickly, and with prompt service, Erik and he stood to leave the premise. Fear. Of course the soprano would fear him, but that meant only good things for him, as his sway would get her to perform, assuming all went well tomorrow.

Tomorrow, that was the tell, and with a scrutinizing look to the brunette, he straightened an already pin-straight posture and sauntered from the small Swedish building, the warm air assaulting him in the night and giving way to their evening in.