Disclaimer: Obviously, I am not Gaston Levoux. Nor Andrew Lloyd Webber. Thus, I do not own Erik or any of the Phantom of the Opera. (Sadly..)

A/N: This story contains E/C pairing. Don't like it? Sorry, but you'll have to deal with it, and read no further. Also, this is based mostly off of the movie. As I'm only half way through the book right now, and I unfortunately haven't had the opportunity to see it on stage quite yet. So I'm sticking to what I know so I -hopefully- don't mess anything up too badly. Thus if anything written is not accurate to the stage performance or book - Try to grit your teeth and bare with me, please. )

Chapter 1:
I Cry for Only You

He could see her soft face, He could hear her lofty voice. So clear, and perfect in the darkness that encompassed him. Yet, she was fading.. And with her face, her song.. No matter how far he reached his hand, he could not touch her.

He wanted to scream at that face with a fury that could fuel the sun. Yet he could not as he came to find, for perhaps the first time since his arrival to these catacombs, that he could not find his voice.

He felt as though he couldn't breath, his stomach tightened into a knot that rolled in discomfort and made him feel ill.

The corners of his eyes, they burned.

His temples ached as he struggled against the loathed tears that screamed to escape for what seemed to be the hundredth time that very night.

"I gave you everything I knew.. And yet you gave me nothing.. But as hard as I try.. You will not be gone! I know I should not.. Yet I still forgive you.. No matter how hard I struggle.. This accursed spell just won't be lifted..! Damn you.. I love you.."

"Christine.."


Here she was again. Sitting atop the steps of her father's tomb once more, her dress fanned out on the ground soiled in the autumn mud and leaves. The placid sky above her was gray and empty, unlike the cracked and flaking stone of the tombs that spread across the gravel grounds of the cemetery.

Young miss Christine DaaƩ was an angel in this morose garden of weathered marble and overgrown vines. The black velvet of her mourning gown contrasted perfectly with the white of her pallid complexion.

Slowly a hand sheathed in black lace lowered a red rose to the steps of the tomb where her father slept. I come here everyday.. She thought, I come here to pray.. To cry.. Yet today, she could not bring herself to do any of those things.

Raoul had been gone again on more business in London. They were to be married come this December.. And yet, she felt as though she were a widow. He was always gone.. And even when with her, his mind seemed as if it were very far away, while placed her on a pedestal like a trophy won in some petty competition. Had she had lost her childhood sweetheart somewhere in the burning corridors of the Opera Populaire nearly 6 months ago? Had she really made the right- She stopped her thoughts quickly.

Why? Why did her thoughts always return to that horrible place? That wonderful place..

Slender fingers placed themselves gently on the soft skin of her forehead above a brow that gathered in frustration, and what may have been a hint of fear.

She could still see those eyes. Those golden eyes. And that face that constantly followed her with such a pleading gaze. She could not shake Him! And every time she thought of Him, her heart ached with a most powerful hurt she could never forget, though she tried.

His last words still rang in her ears, and haunted her dreams.

"You alone can make my song take flight.."

"It's over now - The Music of the Night!"

Oh! How excruciating those words were every time she heard them!

Raoul called Him a monster. Society called Him a murderer. She obediently called Him both.

But at night she sat at her vanity, almost hoping to look into her reflection and see His gazing back at her- So adoringly as He had done before. She almost hoped He would sing to her once more. Just one time more if nothing else.

So, to herself, she secretly called Him an Angel.

Did she miss this man? No! Of course not! She had been nothing more than a victim under His terrible spell.. That's what her Vicomte du Chagny said. And, of course, that's what she believed.

But there He was again, and she felt a wetness, a drop of water stream from the corner of her eye to the corner of her pink lips.. A tear that she could not have given her father this day.. But could, without second thought, for Him.


So there you have it. The first chapter of my first Phantom of the Opera "phanphiction". I hope you all like it. I know it was a bit short/not much happened, but you've got to start somewhere.

Also, I love comments and suggestions.