I'm back with a new fic! This is a historical AU, E/C, romance/angst fic. I have no idea how long it will go, but it will definitely be rated M.

This idea hit me a while back and just wouldn't leave. I've borrowed a bit of mythology for all over the place, but in particular I use a few details from Kresley Cole's paranormal series.

I'm terribly nervous about this prologue, so please let me know what you think! Even though this prologue is only from Erik's pov, this fic will be written in both Erik and Christine's pov. Here we go!

The Visitant

by Melancholy's Child

"But servitors, with trembling, marked full well

A wondrous face behind him in the gloom;

Of flame it seemed, yet nothing did illume;

Laughing revenge gleamed red in every line:

But how it entered the pavilioned room,

Or how it past, no mortal could divine;

A visitant it seemed from some unhallowed shrine."

- Ettrick Sheppard, "Mador of the Moor"

Prologue: stroll

On Sunday evening, the Ghost went for a stroll.

At first, he had not with all seriousness meant to undertake such a venture. Upon one moment, he had been pausing halfway up the narrow, curving staircase that led to the basement of his home, checking once more that the sun was no longer pouring through the checkered glass of the windows. Upon the next, he had stepped into the foyer and taken up his hat and cloak.

Darius had been at his elbow at once, assisting with the cloak. A deep furrow cut across the brown skin of his forehead, the lines used to the path. Darius's prerogative was to worry first and ask questions next.

"Maestro?"

"I am going out," he said, cutting off the Persian. Darius had made a fine butler for this past decade, but sometimes Erik simply wanted to avoid such looks like the one he was receiving now.

"Perhaps I shall go with you, maestro? We can take the carriage."

Erik shook his head, then tugged his wide-brimmed hat atop his thin hair. He was careful not to knock the full white mask askew. Darius might be his long-term servant, and therefore had to deal with the worst of him anyway, but Erik could not shield him from such a sight should he see it without warning.

"I should not be long," he said to Darius. "Find me something to eat when I return."

Yes, it was Sunday evening, and he had decided to go for a walk above for the first time in decades. No wonder his servant was giving him such a look.

The Ghost felt the brass knob of the door against his palm before he put on his remaining black kidskin glove. The brass was still slightly warm to the touch, but not overly so. With the winter thaw having hit a few weeks ago, the days were starting to stretch, the sunlight lingering longer in the evening.

He had to take certain extra precautions during this time of year.

In any case, the lack of light streaming into the windows – and so many goddamn windows this Medieval place had – told him what he needed to know. The knob turned easily in his hand, and he stepped out into the courtyard, the red wooden door banging shut behind him.

It was not dark outside, not quite. Sunlight still flickered across the gently sloping roofs of Paris, the glow a deep sunset orange. Many of the streets of this city were enshrined within these tall buildings, a feature he appreciated for its ability to cause the deep shadows into which he now stepped. Pulling his cloak tighter about his shoulders, he emerged from the courtyard of his own home and turned left for no reason other than it sent him east.

The lit streetlamps cast thin shadows from the promenading masses enjoying the slightly warmer weather. He had not expected the streets to be so busy, but then, he had never really chosen to step outside like this, had he? He kept a close, suspicious eye on passersby, looking for any lingering gazes, but no one seemed to notice his mask nor his tall, hulking figure.

For all the presence he knew he exuded, he might as well not have existed at all. This indifference what was he had expected – and even hoped for – when he first stepped outside his home. Pedestrians parted around him, giving him space but casting no looks his way.

It was exactly what should have happened. So why did the lack of attention sting so much?

The people of Paris chattered together in twos or threes. Women linked arms with men and tossed back their rouged lips to laugh. Everyone in this prominent neighborhood seemed to have somewhere to go or someone to be with.

It did not take him long to realize his mistake.

By the time he made it several streets over, his body had seized in panic. A combination of longing and too much effort sent his inky limbs stiffening, his knees threatening to buckle. He all but tossed himself into the first empty stairwell he saw, shouldering the door open to slide upon the stoop. It was as far as he could get into the residence without being invited, but at least he could hide for a moment.

Gods, he ached all over. It had taken him too much effort to sluice the curious eyes of those outside, especially as weakened as he was. How long had it been since he had last consumed any real food? Years, he thought, not since that ruffian of a stagehand he had done away with at the opera house. He had drunk himself into oblivion afterward to rid himself of the taste, but the strength. He remembered the surge of it through his veins, the way the pounding in his head had eased, how he could cross the whole of the city without fatigue.

He needed more time to rest, but he could not ignore the painful tingling at his back to leave this residence he had invaded. He slipped back upon the sidewalk with every intent to press back the way he had come until he reached home.

And that is when he heard it. The sound of a violin being played by masterful hands.

The music flowed between the tall buildings, wrapping around the light-colored stone and seeping through the waning light to tease at his ears. Erik snapped his head around, locating its direction at once. His legs quivered in protest at setting out even farther from the house, and the exposed skin of his neck and chin were approaching the tightness of sunburn, but he pushed himself to cross the street.

He had spent decades beneath the opera house mere levels away from a full orchestra. Those musicians had some talent – as well they should since he had chased away any who were lacking. However, the notes that he heard now transcended any he had heard before. This player demonstrated a conquering of every sound and transition, of every vibrato caused by the tips of fingers expertly wielded.

He wanted to hear more.

The streets were more crowded here. He turned around a corner and hissed despite himself, drawing back. The street had suddenly opened to a common green space, and the winter-bare trees were not enough to diffuse the last rays of sunset glinting between buildings.

Again, he was torn between returning home and continuing. The music teased at him, threads of soothing reverberations that pulled him forward. He slinked from doorway to doorway and, as his shoulders began to smolder, he threw himself against the rough bark of a tree, the trunk shielding him effectively enough. No one noticed the tall, thin figure clad all in black who seemed ready to collapse at any moment.

Here, the violin played clearer, the notes seeking him unencumbered. The comforting sounds eased the burning of his neck and shoulders. He heard as the low, heavy notes blended into the next song – a lively piece that soon had spectators clapping along. A street musician, playing for coin on the streets.

Erik hazarded a glance around the trunk, his shrewd eye landing on a brown-haired, bearded man. He played the violin with practiced ease, one foot tapping the quick beat, his movements that of a master. He could have easily usurped the principal violinist at the Palais, and Erik had half a mind to arrange such a scandal.

Onlookers tossed coins into the violinist's upturned hat. When the man stopped playing, and it became clear that the performance had ended, Erik almost fled immediately. Instead, he lingered despite his trepidation.

A laugh sounded, followed by a female voice calling out in accented French: "Thank you, madame!"

He caught the twirl of a simple dark blue skirt. He edged around the trunk to see a young woman scoop up the hat and hold it aloft to audience members with outstretched hands and more coin. His shrewd eyes drank her in until he saw her turn toward his direction. She laughed again, and her face split wide upon a smile so effortless and carefree, it rooted him to his spot. One of her hands came up to sweep a ringlet of honey-blonde hair from her shoulder. The strands caught one last beam of faded light streaming through the bare branches, and they glinted as brightly golden as the sun.

And then her eyes shifted and landed on him. She saw him in a way no one else had this evening. Even though they were across the park from each other, those blue depths, as blue as he remembered the sky being, noticed him there.

He swung back around the trunk, putting the last of his energy into being forgotten. His chest ached again, but he did not think the sensation was all from fatigue.

The bark dug into his back through his cloak. The evening dipped fully into dusk, and the crowds dispersed. He hazarded another look around the trunk and saw as the young woman linked arms with the violinist. She gave him that same dazzling smile from before and called the man "Papa" as they began to discuss plans for dinner.

Even though she did not cast another glance his way, Erik remembered the way it had felt with her eyes upon him. He remembered the whiteness of her smile, the glowing of her hair. He knew then what he must do were he to survive.

The Ghost would take a wife.