A/N: This is a (very necessary) rewrite of the original fic which was a bit of a train-wreck. I found that, looking at it again, a lot of it made me cringe, and that there were all sorts of mistakes I had missed the first time, which nagged at me.

This is a Leroux/Kay Erik centric story. Mostly Leroux, though I have taken the Kay background, and merged some characteristics to create my own approximation of Erik. And I'm afraid I've borrowed the fire at the opera house from the 2004 movie-verse, because I quite liked the drama of it. I'm ignoring LND outright.

This is an eventual E/OC, also featuring the R/C pairing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera or anything to do with it.

A Semblance of Dreams

Prologue

Spring, 1883

Two weeks after the chandelier disaster at the Palais Garnier, the most innocuous advertisement in the world appeared in the l'Epoque. It read simply 'Erik is dead' giving no indication of whom 'Erik' might be, giving not a hint of the achievements of his life and listing no successors. It was just a name, nothing more. It had absolutely no meaning whatsoever to most of Paris, where life and death were everyday things, and where the latest theatrical scandal on page two was of much greater interest.

But there were a few readers to whom it meant the world.

One of these was Erik himself, who was not yet quite as dead as the announcement might have lead one to assume. Erik knew that he could not remain in the house by the lake – not when half of Paris seemed to know of its existence. Or rather, he could not remain if he wished to stay alive – which wasn't to say that he personally suffered from any particular desire to live, but the Daroga could be quite relentless. Perhaps it was the fact that the man had once been chief of police to the Shah of Persia that gave him his dogged persistence.

Erik had fallen into the habit of humouring him just to have a moment's peace from pointed looks and throwaway passive-aggressive remarks.

What the Daroga wanted was to get Erik out of his cave. Unhealthy! He would declare. Positively dreary!

Khan was no longer the chief of police, of course – hadn't been for a very long time. His early and enforced retirement from that position could perhaps have been put down to Erik and the strange friendship between them. 's genteel exile, which had been granted in place of a much harsher fate, was entirely due to his distant blood connection to the shah. He was not important enough to be killed, it seemed, and the shah had always been somewhat fond of his hard-working cousin.

Of course, Erik's current problems could in turn be placed firmly at the Daroga's door, so turn-about was fair play. The Daroga had been the one to lead the stupidly brave Viscount de Chagny to his door, to rescue Erik's own protégé, Mademoiselle Daae, no less which counted as nothing less than betrayal. Erik had been furious but there was some sentiment, which he could not quite identify, which had stayed his hand when it came to exacting swift retribution. Perhaps, Erik reasoned, he had finally grown old. Or maybe the whole viscount business had left him so broken that one betrayal more or less did not particularly matter.

The Daroga, for his part, was entirely unapologetic. He had calmly pointed out that had he really wanted Erik dead, he would have betrayed the Opera Ghost's biggest secret earlier, and to deadlier enemies than the ridiculous Chagny boy.

In fact, now that the whole unpleasant matter was over with, Nadir seemed quite determined that Erik remain alive: even as the Opera Ghost had tried very hard to explain, though a mist of delirious joy, that Christine Daae had been so very good as to let him kiss her and that now he was content to die at last.

There was a lot to be said for Nadir's persistence, and though Erik would never admit as much out loud, in was pleasant to have someone who refused to leave him alone to meet his death. It had taken a lot of badgering for the Persian to successfully convince Erik that what he needed was time away from the opera house – from Paris, even.

"Take a holiday, my friend! See the world," Nadir had cajoled, refusing to break under the baleful yellow glare fixed on him from behind Erik's funereal mask.

"I have seen it, Daroga, and I am too old to have any desire to subject myself to it again."

"Nonsense! One is never too old!" The Persian's eyes seemed to soften as he continued, "And you are younger than I, though you might not feel it."

At last, Erik let himself be persuaded. He had his own reasons, and he suspected that Nadir knew this, though he also knew better than to press Erik for an explanation. Instead, Nadir went out and booked passage for two on a boat scheduled to sail for India.

Erik took care to publish the notice of his death a good week before his boat was due to set sail. He could not help hoping that Christine would see it, that she would come back with his ring and bury him, as she had promised to do. It was a fool's hope – the Daroga had guardedly informed him that Chagny had taken his new bride far away on a lengthy honeymoon. Their destination was a carefully kept secret.

There were rumours, of course, but Erik suspected those of being red herrings planted for his benefit, in case he took it into his head to search for them. The thought had crossed his mind, but he'd quickly dismissed it. What would be the good of that? Christine was lost to him, and he could not bear to look upon her again knowing that she would never be his wife.

If he could not have Christine, he would at least have his music. Erik had every intention of returning to the opera house to resume his role as the resident Ghost, but first he would have to let them think he was gone for good. To grow arrogant in their confidence, just like angles before the fall.

And he would have to make some adjustments to his underground labyrinth. The tunnels and traps were a great feat of engineering and architecture, and subject almost entirely to Erik's whim. He would re-arrange the passages and reset the traps, making sure that no uninvited guest could set foot in his domain again.

Then he would resume where he left off. A return from the dead was certain to instil a new degree of fear and trepidation at the Garnier.

After a year's absence, Erik returned to his house under the opera, and he found everything much as he had left it. His loneliness and longing still ate at his soul. This made the Persian feel deeply unsettled: no one knew Erik's capacity for cruelty, mayhem and desolation as well as he.

"Nothing short of a miracle can now save what is left of his sanity," the former Daroga muttered to his servant Darius, shutting the door and retreating to his parlour, where he sat for some time, staring thoughtfully out the window into the dark street below.

Something had to be done.