Prologue: After the Opera Affair
Erik ran a hand over his hair, his entire frame shaking. Why was he so surprised at the turn of events? He honestly couldn't believe that he had dared hope that he would win Christine's heart. He remembered that night on the roof of the Opera Populaire, when that fool had pledged his love to her, promising things that Erik knew he couldn't deliver. Yet, he had hoped that his music, his precious music, would win her over.
Instead of winning the heart of the only woman he had dared loved, he had found himself hiding from the wild mobs that were chasing him. Now, he could never go back to the place he had dearly loved and had called home. He, once again, was forced to flee. Although Giry had gotten him a shabby little room in the very pits of Paris, he knew that he couldn't stay here. With his mask and the fact that he never ventured from this room, someone, sooner or later, would come snooping around, or they would guess his identity and call the authorities on him.
He looked at the beautiful dagger that had previously been laying on his bedside table. He picked it up, studying it closely. It was absolutely beautiful, with a gold hilt. A ruby the color of blood sat in the pommel, glimmering in the dim candle light. He refused to run anymore. If they wanted him dead, then they would get what they wanted. He would kill no more. Christine's words rang in his ears, "This face holds no horror for me now. The true distortion lies in your soul."
Well, there would be no more of that. He lifted the dagger above his head, aiming for his beating heart. He closed his eyes, seeing Christine's face in his mind once more. "Oh Christine," he whispered. He plunged the dagger straight into his chest. A low breath escaped him as his knees buckled. He was dead before he hit the floor.
A moan escaped Erik as he stirred. There was a loud ringing in his mind and an tingling sensation in his veins that was both pleasant and unpleasant. The memory of the dagger plunging into his chest caused his eyes to open in shock. He sat up and looked dumbly down at his chest, seeing nothing but a bloody rip where the dagger had entered his chest. However, the skin was perfect and unbroken.
Frowning, he put a hand on his chest and felt his heart beating. "How is this possible?"
"It's a bit much to take in, isn't it?"
Erik jumped to his feet at the sound of the unfamiliar male voice. It was thick with a Scottish accent. His eyes immediatly found the man who had spoken. He was a very pleasant looking man, with silky blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His bright blue eyes were looking at him critically.
"Who are you?" Erik hissed, unsure of what to make of everything.
"I am Connor MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod and you, my dear Phantom, are Immortal."