This has been a Phan fic in the works for a couple years. There has been a lot of plotting and shifting around ideas, even pinning some images on Pinterest for inspiration and ideas. Finally, after a lengthy test, it's finally taken form in this story.

Master of the Opera takes place after the events at the Opera Populaire in Andrew Lloyd Webber's iconic musical "The Phantom Of The Opera". I chose this version because it's the only one that hasn't killed off the Phantom. This is simply my take on what could have possibly happened to the Phantom after Raoul and Christine left the lair under the opera house. Again, this was after a LOT of research, pondering, inquiries, even listening to and reading the thoughts and points of views of Performers who were a part of ALWs musical.

A disclaimer though. In no way do I own The Phantom Of The Opera. It's exclusively to Leroux and ALW. In no way do I make a profit off of this story and most likely never will. Some of the characters and their names in this story, however, I will lay claim to because I researched the combination of names that would coincide perfectly to the theme and ideal of The Phantom Of The Opera. In no way did I copy anyone's character or names. I have done my best to avoid anyone's fan fiction because I did not want to be influenced by someone else's stories. So, if my story and ideas sound familiar to yours, my apologies but I guarantee that I did not steal or commandeer anyone's idea. Isolation sometimes breeds similar thoughts and ideas. Imagine that, hmm?

Hang on! There's more! LOL, yes, that certainly sounded like an Infomercial. Catch before each Chapter a list of a song or two, or maybe a few i recommend listening to that coincides with certain parts of the story. If I can find a link to one, I will post it, otherwise, if you have access to apps to listen and download some songs, go with that.

And now, here it is, the Master of the Opera:

Engulfed in darkness and as stiff as a statue, an unusual man known as the Phantom of the Opera, barely breathed while he listened to the trespassing mob ransack his domain in an effort to find him. However, they would never find him for he was clever. Incredibly clever. Far too clever for mere mortal men. It was a means of survival. Yet being clever also had a downfall. After he pulled a stupid stunt upon the stage above a short time ago during the performance of his own opera 'Don Juan Triumphant', the action alerted all of Paris to his continued existence. Again, he was a wanted man. He tried to keep his mind as calm and clear as possible for he knew any emotion would only roil him and, thus, compromise his location by mere movement or sound. No, he could not afford that.
So he remained absolutely still and silent.

Only when the voices of the intruders had died down and the noises gave way to silence did he breathe a sigh of relief, yet he was not out of danger. They would be back for him. He was certain they would return. They would be looking for him everywhere. Above and below, even in the catacombs where the dead literally rested in pieces. Thus, there would be no place for him to hide. No sanctuary and no quarter for him. Not even in the hallowed Gothic walls of Notre Dame, nor with the statues and mausoleums of Montemartre cemetery, or the cold murky depths of the Seine. The thought terrified him of his body on display for the world to see of the monster that plagued them. Perhaps they may decapitate him and place that accursed, twisted face of his in a jar to be preserved for all time, to be studied and defined as the most vile visage ever recorded. Such thoughts riled his emotions, increased his breathing, and panic nearly set in just by merely ponderings those outcomes.

The Phantom took a deep breath then released a soft sigh as he barely felt his body move when emerging from his hiding place – his magician's throne. The lonely echo of disturbed water settling back into a stagnant state was heard and nothing more. His mismatched eyes meticulously scanned the candlelit lair only to behold precious possessions and the few furnishings either misplaced or missing. The disarray caused a carefully restrained terror to rise up within him as he struggled to breathe. His hands rose to his head to smooth back his thinned wispy askew hair rather than the perfect hairpiece he often wore. At the sensation of his nearly bald head, he came to the realization he was unmasked and had no hairpiece. He jerked those articulate hands away in disgust to look at them as if searching for some sign of a disease. Now he was on the verge of a complete emotional breakdown.
He rushed to and fro with jagged feline grace in a hopeful effort to locate his few possessions that meant the world to him. The Phantom located the papier-mâché music box of the monkey on the barrel organ and in that fleeting moment he slowed down to tenderly pet the unique toy with the greatest reverence while he reminisced. At his mere touch the monkey came to life once again. Tears blurred his gaze as music eminated from the unique music box resurrecting memories of moments ago and long past to haunted him.
"What now?" he softly whimpered in a sing-song voice with a hint of angst while staring at the monkey as if it had all the answers. "Where? How?" Again he continued in a sing-song manner as his tone shifted more to desperation. "Who can I turn to?" He lifted his head as if gazing at a far distant image with dire hope.
Finally, he pried himself away from the precious music box and sought out his violin, "No one!" His actions were harsh as he grabbed for his hat and cloak, "There's no one!" Then lunged for his books, paper and nib pen, "No one cares!" He grabbed his Oriental robe, "No one's there," and cap, "Not a soul!" and pondered for a couple seconds and reached swiftly for his fine silk-cotton evening gloves. "NO ONE!" His musical tenor voice echoed through the dark caverns under the opera house. "No one," his sing-song voice softened in volume to nearly a whisper and the tone was fading away to hopelessness and heart ache, "Not… one."
As he dashed about, the Phantom frantically searched for his mask but he could not find it. The Phantom's body slew which forced him to stop. The reaction to being out of control of his own body caused him to press his palms to the temples of his head and barely restrained a frustrated yet frightened bellow. He was so very tempted to press even harder and harder to crack his skull and perhaps end his misery rather than allow his racing thoughts to continue to spirit his sanity away. "Where... now?" He whispered in that sweet tenor voice barely clinging to hope and slow released the pressure of his palms against his head. That realization of misery finally took hold and felt the haunting sensation of that life-changing kiss upon his inhuman lips. His twisted face sank during flashbacks flooding his mind that reminded him of how bittersweet that moment was and all he did was just stand there while his arms dangling and trembling at his sides with shoulders slightly hunched forward completely frozen in place from the shock that gave way to realization of the events that hurled them to that point. He felt sobs welling and pondered throwing himself into the lake all in an effort to drown out his misery by drowning himself. Once again, his hands shot up and pressed against his head then slid back to smooth his wispy hair as his eyes blurred with salty tears.
"Oh, Christine," he mournfully whimpered.

A distant male voice, who called out to his compatriots, echoed all around and snapped the Phantom out of his forlorn state. His dissimilar eyes shot up to lock upon the direction the sounds came from. It appeared the mob or Gendarmerie were returning to his lair and they were not far away. In panic haste, the Phantom briefly searched for his mask but could not find it. So, he grabbed his fedora and cloak as he rushed away into the darkness leaving behind all his precious meager possessions.

...

Slowly the Phantom waded through underground lake in an effort to minimize the ripples and sound of disturbed water. He wanted no one to follow him, let alone find him, and made every effort to be invisible and silent. After all, he was the Phantom!
The frozen soaked sensation permeated through his fine Gentlemen's Opera attire and, no doubt, had ruined the silk parts of the outfit. A fleeting annoyance overwhelmed him about the wet clothing and knew that would haunt him later on. In rhythmic motion of legs swinging opposite of his arms, the Phantom finally came to the far side of the underground lake and pulled himself out of the chilly water. Instantly he was bombarded with a new reality of static, musty air that only made the chilled sting of soaking wet fabric upon his skin all the more noticeable. He glanced this way then glanced that way while his mind tried to plan his next move but, alas, his body and mind was numb. So he forced his protesting body onward through the darkness and stumbled occasionally as his hands crawled along the stony walls until he felt the morbid sensation of skulls and bones. At that moment, he froze as his hands withdrew from the eerie sufface. He had a fleeting thought of how he was like the dead. With barely a sigh, he reached back out into the darkness to feel a skull, then another, and another as he moved on. Slowly he trudged along in the darkness with hardy a sound other than his soft footfalls nearly in sync with the dripping water that echoed from somewhere through the vast catacombs. He knew where he was and as his thoughts were voiced, "how appropriate." The whisper sounded more like a booming yell in the emptiness that surrounded him. "That I would come here. That I would die here. How... appropriate." His whispered words were filled with grave emotions that overwhelmed him. "And here... I shall stay. With no one to blame. None to shame. A place of peace. My life shall cease… in this realm of death!" His last words resounded with a harsh, bleak tone. He stumbled on with one foot slowly placed before the other. "Oh, Christine," he whimpered. "Dear Christine," as his hand drew near his face, the fingertips lightly touched the malformed lips as he reminisced of that beautiful kiss. "Why... Christine," he whimpered and finally stopped. He squatted to the ground with a hand upon the bones while the other covered his face. He sobbed at what had happened and what he had done. "Christine. Christine. What have I done!" He cried out and continued to sob. His legs fell from under his squatted form and caused him to fall back against the bones as they protested with a hollow clatter because he disturbed them. The hand that was upon the bones slid off and dropped to his side while the other hand continued to hold his deformed face. A leg clumsily extended as he bent forward and in a grave sing-song voice he asked, "Is it true, Christine? Is it true? Am I so vile that my face... reflects... my soul? Is it... true?" He sobbed for a good half hour among the dead.

...

A sharp sting followed by another even more intense sting jolt him in consciousness. One would never know they were conscious or unconscious in such dense darkness, however another sharp sensation of pain caused his whole body to jerk. The Phantom kicked his legs and swung his hand blindly through the dark as he felt small bodies of fur and heard little squeaks when he collided with the other tiny lifeforms of the sewers and catacombs. Another jerk of his leg when he felt something crawl up his leg. At this point, he scurried to his feet and forced every little crawling invader off him. The rats had never bothered him before and so he never bothered them. By this sign it was apparent that things had changed.

When another rodent scurried across his feet, he stumbles back to hit the bones causing them to protest once again for being disturbed. He hissed in disdain as the hollow clatter echoed then froze to listened intensely for rhythmic footfalls but none was heard. After a couple minutes of nothing more than the chirps and squeaks of rodents in discord with the dripping water, he was satisfied then slowly put one foot in front of the other in an effort to find another better place to hide.

Rodents were nearly everywhere in the catacombs and the evidence of them were felt upon the lingering bones, yet his mind was not on the bones or the rodents. He continued to replay the moment in his mind of Christine's sacrificial kiss and then the moment she returned the ring to him. Absentmindedly he fondled the ring upon his finger that had now lost it's warmth. He felt so confused but he came to a realization that she was not meant to be his at all. She was bound for better things in life and for that reason, he could not keep her. He whimpered at the very thought of Christine and stumbled to his knees where he continued to sob with a hand upon the bones that created a wall. "What now, Christine? Where now, Christine?" He whimpered as his hand slid down to join the other upon his lap. "Oh, Christine. Tell me, Christine," he cried out and his sing-song tenor voice was powerful as thunder echoed through the catacombs, then faded to a delicate whisper. "Where... now?"

...

Uncertain of what to do now, the Phantom trudges on as if pushed by the force of God. As the days and nights passed without care or knowledge, he roamed from one tunnel to another. The Phantom goes on with nothing more than the clothes on his back but his hope had taken a hit and damaged his pride. He grew accustomed to the stillness around him of the dead and the rodents with nothing more than his memories of Christine to plagued him. That is, until footsteps alarm him. Now he is forced to hide among the dead. He almost did not disappear fast enough under the bones when a rather shabby man strode by with a lantern. Those dark eyes scanned what the dim light revealed with such an intense, even intimidating, harsh stare. For a moment, the Phantom felt scared that he would be discovered by the rat catcher. After a long minute, the footsteps slowly grew faint and the light dimmed into darkness once again. The Phantom sighed ever so softly in relief as he carefully, slowly emerged, then continued on until he was too exhausted.

...

The Phantom was roused from his nap by the sound of echoing voices. While he remained still for a moment, the Phantom listens to determine that they are coming in his direction. Luckily, he made certain he had a way to escape as he carefully slipped backwards into the darkness through a narrow passage nearly full of bones.

At this point, he felt a little hungry and insatiably thirsty. Several days and nights had left him meek and weary. Yet the days had not diminished Christine from his mind. What was even more dangerous for him was the longing to see Christine. As the Phantom climbed over the piled numerous bones that rattled and protested under his weight, his countenance was deeply somber all because his mind was filled with memories of Christine. He began to worry about her and wonder if she was truly well and safe. He staggered off the piled bones as he came to another branch of the catacombs and stumbled a couple steps forward only to collapse against the damp, slimy wall. He whimpered and held himself tightly, "Oh, Christine," he drew out her name as if it were a begged prayer for guidance. Softly, as if like a whisper to his ears, he heard the faint sound of a beautiful violin. His eyes focused upon a dim beam of light that came from the streets above. It appeared as if Heaven beckoned him and he could do nothing less than comply. Slowly and carefully, he picked himself and lurched forward away from the pile of bones towards the beam of light. The damp wall acted as support and guidance to keep him moving onwards as his hands walked in unison with his feet. The soft sound of the violin became a discernible melody the closer he got to the soft beam of light. It took him a few tries to look up as he blinked against the garish light and used his arm to shield his eyes until finally he could peer up at the light that shone through the cast iron filigree drainage grate. A lovely moon no doubt but all he saw was a single bright star winking down at him from the Heavens above. He listened to the violin rather forlorn with his hands planted upon the cold, damp wall of the catacombs. His eyes continued to blink as they adjusted to the soft silvery moonlight. As the violin began to fade, a familiar voice caused him to perk up immediately. Just a voice that only spoke, not singing, but it was unmistakable! Could it be her? "Christine?" he whispered but did not realize that he had spoken her name aloud and began to echo through the tunnels of his sheltered domain. He gazed up in wonder and hope to see if he could catch a glimpse of her. Just one little fleeting sight was all he needed. That was enough. Wasn't it? He strained to try and see her but it was futile. At this point he was desperate to see her. He had to see her! He just had to!

"Christine," he lunged away from the moonlight and hastily staggered through the sewers in dire need to find an escape from the subterranean realm. All the while as he rushed about, he begged that he was not too late to see her. Even if only from a distance he had to see her. He found an escape and climbed to the surface where he emerged in an alley. The night was dark and damp from a recent rain which stirred various smells from earthy sweetness to unsavory stenches that bombarded the nose. A pair of forgotten eyes spied him for a time before the old beggar cowered away and melted into a hopelessness hundle once again. The Phantom covered his face and he shrank away from the beggar in fear of being recognized. As he rounded a corner and glanced back at the beggar, he noticed how cold and miserable the poor person was. At that moment, he had a fleeting bit of disdain and a dire determination not to be like the beggar.

Christine swiftly returned to the forefront of his mind. The Phantom turned his head back around to glance about desperately searching for Christine and hoping to hear her voice as well. He heard and saw nothing so he began to wander swiftly towards where he last heard her. When he reached the cast iron grate, he realized how close he was to the glorious Notre Dame. Awe and wonder possessed him for a fleeting moment, followed by a sort of panic that filled him as people often flooded the grand cathedral. It meant that this place was not safe for him. Again, his dissimilar eyes danced around but this time he hoped to keep out of sight because he doubted the Authorities had stopped looking for him. It was the instilled fear of being found and hounded out that was enough to keep him moving. Swiftly, with feline movement, he slipped once again back into the darkest shadows cast the Parisian buildings and to remain there until a miracle would happen but none would come. He began to hang his head in woe. He began to believe he thought he heard Christine only because he wished to hear her. As he was lost in his thoughts at that moment, he felt his deformed lips tingle at the phantom sensation of the kiss and slowly his long fingers once again rose to touch his own aweful lips. The tingling continued strongly as if she were still kissing him. He closed his eyes while his long fingers remained upon his misshapen lips. For a moment, he lost himself in that memory as he shifted and squatted down beside a tree. Then he leaned against the tree in a most uncomfortable feline position. "Oh, Christine," his sing-song tenor voice whimpered deeply forlorn and wished he could see her once again.
Just... once.