Ok this is my first story on here, so please read it and be nice! i have a ton of beginnings to stories, so I' will probably post them eventually, but tell me what you think of this one and review if you want me to continue. I own nothing except my imagination and Bella Rose Nasreen. That little sweetie is all mine and Erik's!!

Her voice haunted his dreams. He knew she didn't love him, but he also knew she couldn't resist him. The sliver of hope had equated to more than a few restless nights on his part. So here he sat, another night of composing through his fatigue. Composing lullabies to relax himself, but nothing had helped. He had learned long ago that while his music may captivate and entrance every other human, he couldn't lull himself to sleep even if he wished to. Every dream began and ended the same way, so why should he put himself through the ordeal at all? He felt his power drain into the keyboard beneath his fingers.

Another dream. Another agonizingly sweet, horrifyingly vivid dream that became a nightmare the moment he woke. She sang for him, only for him, her voice unbearably crisp and perfect. She smiled at him, unwavering her song as she gazed at him with eternal love and commitment. The nightmare of his life came forward just before she spoke the words he longed to hear more than anything else. In all these months, not even in his dreams had he heard these words. They were painfully close, yet just beyond his grasp.

He woke with a vengeance, tearing his meticulously crafted mask off his face. He raised his hand to his forehead in despair that he had been forced to wake. He rose stiffly from his organ, cursing once again that he should have moved to the comfort of his bed for all the good it had done against the beloved yet loathed dream. He ran his fingers reverently over the ivory keys before retreating to his bath. He bathed quickly in the icy water to help distract him from his fiery longings. He applied the thick menthol paste to his face slowly, slathering it on in stages, wincing and hissing as it burned the sensitive and inflamed skin. Then it cooled and numbed the area to his relief as he replaced his mask.

He returned to his beloved organ and played one of his previous compositions to relax him. Then he emerged to watch the progress of the opera. As usual, artistic chaos was ensuing. The ballet dancers were not quite up to par according to the Madame Giry. The jumps were simply not high enough, the steps not graceful enough, the turns not perfect enough. She clucked at each and every ballerina, especially her own daughter, although she was the one making the least mistakes. The choir practiced in varying chords and the actors practiced their lines. He watched Miss Daae carefully. She was the only one he placed any hope of perfection in. She started a little flat, much to his dismay, but redeemed herself quickly, singing the ballad perfectly. His eyes brightened as he watched her. They would work tonight; perhaps he would take her down this evening, have her practice one of his newer pieces. Nothing would please him more, but he wondered if he had the strength to return her. Her beauty and angelic voice was a curse to her at times like this. But he would make himself take her back, even though it killed him. He watched them all day, silent and unmoving. She sang as lovely as ever, and he sensed that she felt his eyes upon her at all times. When they had finished she returned to her quarters. He followed gradually through the roof beams, eyeing all the happenings within his opera house. Most of them he ignored, but he couldn't help but to scare one of the ballerinas out of her wits when he came across she and her lover. He whispered frightening things to her and she abruptly left, straight on to the dormitories, leaving her lover behind with only a bottle of rum as his companion. Erik continued forward to his beloved's quarters, perching behind the mirror just in time to see her straighten her silken bodice for lessons. Her eyes grew wide for a moment as she looked to the ceiling, pressing her hands behind her back.

"Are you ready, my child?" he asked through the slender back of the mirror.

"I am ready, my Angel," she replied innocently, closing her eyes.

"We shall retire tonight below, where your dreams of richest music may come alive." He enticed her simply, hypnotically with his voice alone she followed him through the mirror once again. He took her hand and led her far below. She followed him humbly, singing to his hearts content at his every whim. But she was entranced. With every song he stripped her free will and sense away, she was moldable clay with a single tune. He taught her all and indulged the both of their senses in music that was ambrosia to his ears. He lay her down once more on the bed and retired to his piano with but a smile on his face of contentment. He would return her in the morning, why ruin this moment of happiness? His long cold heart lived in her presence; he could feel it beating beneath his fingers. He played the loveliest, the happiest of tunes his fingers could recall, daydreaming of things he well knew would never happen. But nonetheless, he couldn't help but wish for them all the same. He watched her sleep as he played, her silken hair barely brushing her temple, her rose mouth parted beautifully in sleep. He fought the urge to kiss her, however brief and gentle he knew it would be. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her. He felt his heart rise to his throat in happiness, in pure contentment, and drifted off to sleep beside her. He did not dream that night.

The next morning she woke in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar place. She tried desperately to remember, but found she couldn't. Then she heard the most heavenly of music play, and she remembered her angel. She went to him quickly, desperately, needing the music to fill her up like nothing else could. She sang with her whole heart beside him until she could sing no more. Then he stopped and turned to her, gently kissing her hand.

"Good morning, my dear," he whispered. She looked up at him, beaming,

"Good morning, my Angel," she whispered.

"We must return, my child, else you will be missed," he smiled at her while dying inside, "follow me,"

"Lead me, oh Angel of Music," she sang at his very whim. Oh, the joys and trials of perfect control. But he returned her nonetheless, before anyone's notice, just in time for breakfast and lessons. He watched her the rest of the day before returning to his lair in anger and frustration. Why was it that the one person he had complete and absolute control over was the one person he hated to enslave, the person he longed would chose him of her free will? Why was he cursed to love the unattainable, yet tangible beauty? Why?

He threw dishes, books, papers, candles; anything and everything he could get his hands on when he returned to the dungeons of his black despair. He was murderous.

Finally he stormed out of the lair, through the catacombs, up to the world above. Tonight was a hunting night, a night for a reckoning.