Chapter One

The elongated shadows, the damp walls and pavements, the cloudy overhang of night wrapped the Phantom of the Opera in a dreary, familiar blanket. His home was the shadows, his dwelling the clammy alleyways, his quarters the dark mantle of obscurity that consumed Paris in the latest hours of the night. Only in these bleak hours could Erik travel the alleys and rooftops, the angel of darkness.

He dove down into the alley beneath his feet, drawing his cape up around him as he silently landed. His golden eyes shone behind the mask that hid his most repugnant of features, the center of his bottomless abhorrence for the man that lurked inside of him. Not even he could be salvaged from the loneliness that had entitled itself to his soul. He had lost everything he had once cherished; his Opera House, in which he had reigned, his music, his compositions, and his beloved Christine.

Christine…

It had been a year since her departure with Raoul, since the mob trashed his home, when he realized that bliss and adoration was not meant for the horrendously deformed. He had poured all of his love, all of his time, into the care and nurturing of the beautiful angel that was Christine. He observed as she blossomed, and trained her in the technique and beauty of music. He had molded her and given her the gift of a melodious, awe-inspiring voice. Everything about her was endlessly magnificent and exquisite.

Even so, the exhilaration, adventure, and romanticism of the calling of a long lost childhood love drew his beloved Christine away from him. He was forced to view as his dearest love fell for the arms of another, and tragedy pursued. It ended in misfortune for him, and a marriage for Christine. Being chased from his home in the Opera house, he took to the streets and sewers and anywhere he could find. His only purpose in life was her, and if she was to need him, he'd be close by.

He traveled through the streets, passing time in the late hours of the night, feeling the heavy load of loneliness burden him. He paced like a dead man, through the unnoticeable shadows, the silence of the night deafening his ears. It was a heavy encumbrance, to be alone.

Somewhere amidst the silence, he could hear the faint, despairing sound of a woman weeping. His eyes flickered in the direction, and he quickly descended through the street that separated the uncommon noise and him. Turning a corner, he saw a small framed woman with her arms wrapped around herself, crying quietly into the shelter of her knees, only protected from the wind by a thin nightgown with a silk rope overtop of it. Even in the darkness, with her wrapped in herself, he could tell by her frame, the sound of her cry, and the soft curls of her long hair that it was indeed his Christine.

He hesitated, and slowly walked closer, worried to scare her off; worried of what had happened to her. He extended his arm in front of him, his gold eyes intently gazing on her. His voice finally found its way out of his mouth. "Christine…?"

Her whole body jarred, as if a jolt had run through her skin. She looked at him with terror and shock in her eyes. She stumbled back a bit on the ground, her eyes wide and damp, with her mouth gaping at him soundlessly. At last, a squeak came from her, the only word she knew for him. "Angel?"

His eyes took a forlorn look, as he withdrew his hand from in front of him. He looked to the side of him, blinking back the emotion in his face. He glanced back at her and nodded, not moving any closer for the fear of scaring her. "Christine…" He whispered, the name sounding foreign on his tongue, but no less bittersweet. "Are you well? Why are you out here? I mean you no harm…"

She struggled up to her feet, a mess of wet clothes, shivers and tears. The pain welled up in her eyes as she shook her head, shaking violently, wrapping her arms around herself. He stepped towards her and gently pulled her into her arms; she willingly let herself be warmed by his embrace. He carefully stroked her hair, breathing in her sweet smell once more. "Oh, Christine… Why are you out here?" He spoke softly.

She leaned up out of his embrace and wiped at her face. "Raoul… He, he grew a-angry and…" She whispered, hoarse and stuttering. He leaned back to take a good look at her, noticing the bruises forming against her soft, fair skin. A look of rage fell over his face. "Did he do this to you?"

She did not answer.

He bit back the anger, determined not to frighten her away. He gently took her hand, bringing it up to the side of his face not covered by white mask. "Christine, I can take you somewhere if you let me. Somewhere safe from harm…"

She stared up into his eyes, and for a few moments, he felt bare in front of her, desperate, needing and terrified for her. His eyes showed every word that couldn't be spoken simply. If this was fate giving him, a vile, monstrous creature, a chance, then he was terrified to make a mistake.

And in a few, fateful seconds, she nodded and her fingers intertwined with his. "Please." She murmured, as tears rolled down her face. He didn't hesitate to scoop her up, and carried her along the back way to where he currently resided. She curled up into his arms, letting him take her all the way to an abandoned theatre that was on the opposite side of Paris as the opera house was. He took her into the back way, taking her into the theater that he had mostly restored into a livable place.

He had restored one of the rooms that were predestined for performers to stay in. Rebuilt the large bed, the furniture, kept nice lamps and assorted things he had saved from his old dwelling. He set her down, silence still between them. "One moment…" He murmured, leaving the room for a brief moment and returning with clothes. He set them on the bed for her. "Here, change, and get some rest." And with that, he left.

He was out for blood.