A/N - Welcome to an epic of a story that I've been working on and off again for a year and a half (and it's still not finished!). I finally decided that I need to start posting. I hope you enjoy this latest saga. Again, I write purely for pleasure, so please no comments on spelling or other trivial details - I don't care. Instead, I welcome your thoughts and ideas, and I look forward to continuing some serious story-telling after a long spell of writers' block and wishy-washy-ness.

This first post is a bit of a teaser, I must admit. Please bear with me. The length is intended to be a little shorter than a normal chapter.

A Haunted Angel

Prologue

She stumbled out of the church, clutching the small framed picture of her father in her slender hands. A single dried tear was the only evidence of her grief, save the unfathomable depths of despair mirrored in her soft brown eyes. The sun had set, but a faint crimson glow still lingered in the western sky. Only the brightest of stars had begun to emerge from their veil of day.

Christine hastened through the doors, and in her preoccupation, nearly stumbled into the figure lurking upon the stone steps. She felt a hand close around her wrist in a tight, icy grip. She cried out in surprise and fear, looking up into the face of the man cloaked in shadow. It was him! How did he find her here? How did he know that this was her only sanctuary in the world now? Had he come to mock her now? To torment her tenfold for the wrong she had done him?

The moonlight gleamed in his steady, narrowed, green eyes. Such coldness was upon his elegant features now, only half exposed by the brilliant white mask that lay upon half his face. A gasp seemed to fall from her lips as she realized who the man was. The cry only served to anger him, for his grip tightened upon her wrist, to the point of causing pain. Her hand unintentionally loosened its grip upon the small framed picture and with a cry of horror she watched as it fell from her hand and landed upon the stone steps with a shatter of glass.

A low moan sounded from her throat and she dropped to the ground. He had let go of her now, but she was too distracted by the accident to notice. The revered picture of her father, so carefully preserved all these years, lay in its scratched silver frame, littered with shattered glass. She cried softly in anguish, trying to gather together the pieces in her small hands, as though she might be able to repair the damage. But even her actions worked against her. The glass cut into the skin of her palm, eliciting a sob from her trembling lips. Her hands shook and she was unable to finish her task. The picture still lay in its frame, looking up at her as though in betrayal.

"Papa," she cried softly to herself as she bent over her knees.

Each sob bitterly shook her body. Her only memento of her departed father lay ruined upon the steps. It was possible to repair it, the frame replaced along with its glass overlay, but it was the last remnant of her father's identity, of hers too, and she had ruined it. She had no one in this world and had let go of everything that had once been dear. She could barely afford the cost to repair the picture. Gone were the days of doting admirers, of love struck vicomtes, and of singular gifts placed mysteriously on her dresser.

A pair of gloved hands lifted her from the steps and her aching knees, seating her properly down upon stone. Her eyes still lay upon the ruined picture. She could not bear to look at him right now. She only watched as one hand reached down to lift the picture from the steps. He brushed away the glass carefully and lifted it into his pocket. Christine trembled as he lifted her hands gently and studied the injured one with a cool, calculating gaze. A small cut lay across the palm of her right hand. It was not deep enough to require stitches, but it still bled mercilessly. He lifted a white handkerchief from his pocket and carefully dabbed at the wound. A soft whimper fell from her lips.

Christine found her gaze slowly moving towards his face, as though an invisible force was guiding her head. At first, he did not look at her. His intense gaze was upon the wound while he worked to stop the bleeding, but as the task was finished, she noticed his eyes move upon her. She could see what he saw- the same haunted image that greeted her each morning. Her face, once lively with blush-hued cheeks, was pale and drawn. Indeed she had not been eating well. The once glossy, neatly kept brown curls were now dull and covered with a shawl. But her eyes were the most alarming of all. Happiness and joy had once lingered so close to the surface of her brown eyes. Now they seemed as immeasurable depths, devoid of any joy or girlish mirth. A deep-seated sorrow had filled them now. They seemed to always quiver with emotion, but never let loose their tears. They were no longer the eyes of Gustave Daae's beloved daughter.

Suddenly, without warning, Christine bolted from the step and took off running down the road. Her cloak billowed behind her as she scampered off and vanished into the dusk that was nearing the darkness of night. She glanced behind her only once. The steps of the church were empty. The ghosts of the past were indeed visiting her. They will forever, she thought.

Christine shut the door and pressed her thin frame against it, as though afraid the spirit would have followed her. After a moment, she remembered to draw the lock and found herself drifting towards the small cot that dominated the modest apartment. Her fingers drifted along her wrist, and she found bruised flesh. A ghost could not have left its mark in such a manner, could it? She could remember exactly how the ghostly hands looked upon her flesh – long musician hands, gifted with inhuman strength and splendid masculinity. Her cloak fell from her shoulders as she sunk down upon the bed, pressing her face into the pillow to stifle the cries.

He was supposed to be gone now. She knew all along that his absence was her punishment. She would live in constant reminder of what she had forsaken. But she had never expected to see him again. Perhaps her penitence was not enough. To live alone in the world, struggling with what little skills she possessed to barely make a living was not enough. Perhaps he would forever haunt her steps – a reminder of what she had so carelessly given up.

The picture is gone now, she suddenly realized. I have nothing of my father anymore. He has taken the last beloved memory away from me. He has taken everything away from me.