DISCLAIMER: I am very fond of these characters, although I have no legal rights to them. The plots they currently find themselves in, however, are entirely my own.

A/N: Each writer of POTO stories prefers a certain version of Erik, and I am no exception. So I will briefly explain my Erik. He's a combination of the Lloyd-Webber and Susan Kay characterizations. He does wear a half-mask, instead of the full mask Leroux and Kay have both given him. That's because, when I write about him, it's Gerry Butler I have in mind. He's -- ahem-- a bit hard to shake off.......

My Erik, although obsessed with Christine, is also much more romantic, in keeping with Lloyd-Webber's vision of him. Also, due to Kay's influence, I have made his relationship with Nadir, the Persian, a very close, brotherly one in this story. I just love that Persian! His affection and loyalty to Erik, in spite of his disapproval of the Phantom's actions, are truly touching.

There was a gap in continuity from Chapter 5 to Chapter 6. Therefore, I wrote a new Chapter 6, and substituted that for the existing one. In the process of posting, I then lost the existing Chapter 7. Ironically, the story still flows better in spite of that. I also changed Chapter 10. The original Chapter 10 then became Chapter 11, and, of course, the original Chapter 11 then became Chapter 12. Unfortunately, now the reviews don't match the content of these chapters. Oh, well...... I just didn't want to take the entire story down, thereby losing all the reviews I've gotten so far. Not to mention the hassle of posting every single chapter again.......

I have also revised some passages from Chapters 1 to 3, because they contained unnecessary repetition and awkward sentence structure.

Hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Dream Beckons

In stifling darkness he awoke, trembling, as if startled out of a nightmare. He was in agony, his body drenched in a clammy sweat. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he reached up and felt his brow. The fever raged in him.

Strange images, one after the other, flitted through his mind. One, however, remained in focus. Christine. Her face imposed itself on all the other images. Her eyes were steadily fixed on him. Their serene calmness fascinated him. She had been his muse, the sole light in his solitary darkness. Christine, Christine……She was gone from him forever, into the arms of another. As the thought washed over him like a slow wave, he began to shake with silent tears. He buried his face in the bed sheets, keening like a wild, wounded animal.

Time spent itself in trickling increments of eternity. He fell back into an uneasy, feverish sleep.

At last, he began to dream.

He was suddenly on the rooftop of the Opera House, with a full, resplendent moon upon him, and his cape billowing out behind him in a strong, cool breeze. He felt a presence next to him, and a hand in his. He turned slightly, his eyes drawn to hers. His heart opened as they continued to stare at each other. Then, she smiled at him. Wonderingly, he lifted his other hand to caress her cheek. At last, he looked out into the night. His cape had become a mighty wing. He wanted to fly out and away, to become the night, seeing yet unseen, free at last. As he looked back at her, their eyes asked and answered the obvious question. Once more he turned toward the night. Sprinting forward with her, he allowed the breeze that had by now become a forceful wind, propel them out into the sky. They flew off the rooftop with majestic ease, comfortable with each other, with the swiftly flowing wind. They flew through whispering clouds, over all the gleaming lights of the Parisian landscape. The everlasting music of the stars whirled in perfect time to an eternal waltz. It ebbed and flowed; at times, sweetly plaintive, and then suddenly becoming a roaring, rhythmic pulsing sound. They were one with each other and the universe. Thus would it always be…..

Again he awoke. Cruel reality once more plunged him in hellish agony. He tossed restlessly in his bed, screaming her name, over and over, until he could scream no more. He tried to tear at his clothes, but the screaming had tired him out, so he lay, utterly spent, for a long time. He could not even attempt to get up, so that he could try to reach his loaded pistol, which was always near him, ready for any eventuality. He yearned for it. He wanted to feel the cold metal against his cheek, just before he placed it against his temple and pulled the trigger. Gone was the dynamic singleness of purpose that had been fed by her presence in his life. There was nothing now. His soul was as empty as the ever-present darkness all around him. Thus he drifted into sleep again.

He did not know how long he slept. As waking consciousness gradually descended upon him, he could hear her voice singing in his mind, clear and sweet. It was one of his own compositions, "Song for a Night's Romance". Lifting his head ever so slowly, he opened his eyes. Darkness was all around him. He sat up, feeling as if he were coming back from the dead. He breathed in, deeply, then let his breath out, gently. Her voice was fading now...

The fever had abated, and his mind was beginning to clear. He remembered how she had kissed him just before he had given her to the blasted Vicomte. Erik simply could not tolerate the thought that she would be condemned to a bleak existence beneath the Opera House. So, he had given her up to his rival. He himself had thrust her into his arms. She had not refused to go with the young man. Why, he wondered, had she not protested?

He remembered that kiss vividly, and would take it with him to the grave. Her lips had touched his with tenderness, sorrow, fear, and...love. The memory was bittersweet. He closed his eyes in ecstasy as her voice floated back to him. He had to know where the Vicomte had taken her. She could not possibly be entirely lost to him. At this thought, his heart began to pound, the blood surging in his veins.

He knew not how much time had elapsed since he had been burning with the mysterious fever, which had now left him, just as mysteriously. He had to contact Madame Giry as soon as he was able to.

Slowly, he took off his sweaty clothes. Then he fumbled around for a candle, found one, and struck one of the matches that he always kept in the drawer next to his bed. He hesistatingly rose from the bed, and slowly made his way to his simply appointed bathroom. After his bath, he dressed impeccably, in his usual evening attire, complete with cloak and mask. He walked toward the lake, aware now of an ever-mounting hunger. Eating, however, would have to wait. His need to find Christine was the one impulse now governing his actions.

It took him longer than usual to propel the boat across the lake. He was still weak from the fever, which he now believed had been brought on by the extreme distress her parting had caused him, as well as the struggle with the Vicomte, at the edge of the lake that bordered his house. Naturally, he had not had the presence of mind at the time to change out of his wet clothes immediately.

Once across the lake, he entered the first passageway, on his way to Madame Giry's quarters. At first his obsessive thoughts of Christine pushed him forward. Abruptly, however, his progress became difficult. His brisk, pouncing strides slowed. Out of breath, he staggered, trying to find something along the wall that he could use as support. There was only smooth wall beneath his hands. He fell, as a strange dizziness suddenly overtook him. He lay on the floor, panting, lacking the strength to rise. His initial rush of anger gave way to sadness. Perhaps he would never see her again. It was his last coherent thought.

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A/N: If you have liked this chapter, I do hope you'll review. It would be very encouraging for me. Thanks!