Treasures of Egypt Chapter 1: The Catacombs, a phantom of the opera fanfic

Author's Note:

This is a somewhat lengthy introduction to this story. If you'd rather just "cut to the chase," by all means do so. Just scroll down until you see "Chapter 1." Otherwise, here goes.

This is my first attempt at writing an Erik/Other Woman pairing. Though I'll always be an E/C shipper at heart, I thought it time to spread my wings and try something new. This is also the most Gerik-inspired of all my Eriks. In fact, this story starts off in the days immediately following the disaster at the Opera Populaire.

The following is a general timeline I created for the life of the Erik in Treasures of Egypt. Although this is a movie-based Erik, I have changed some dates and backstories from the movie to address certain things with which I have "issues," such as:

I didn't care for the implication that Erik spent all but his first 10 years living under the opera house;

I never cared for the idea that he was watching Christine -- as a child, no less! -- for 10 more years. Ugh!

And I really don't care for the completely ludicrous idea of the events taking place during the Franco-Prussian War, even if the producer and director blithely ignored that fact.

With these things in mind, here's what I came up with.

1848 - Erik is born near Rouen, son of a stonemason. Since ALW says nothing about his earliest years, I have turned to Leroux for this. I have chosen this year because I am keeping with a younger Erik, basing part of my calculations on the fact that Gerry was 33 years old when he made Phantom. With my revised timeline, that would have Erik being born around 1848. While little more than a toddler, Erik is sold by his parents to a band of traveling gypsies. With them, he is forced to perform as The Devil's Child, and is subjected to abuse.

1858 - This part is movie-based. Now 10 years old, Erik has had enough of his masters. He kills his most vicious abuser and escapes from the authorities thanks to the help of the future Mme Giry. In this story, I am giving her the first name of Hélène. Erik spends the next several years living in the opera house, the only one aware of his presence being the young ballet dancer.

1864 - This differs from the movie. A teenaged Erik has become restless with life within the confines of the opera house. He decides to strike out on his own. Bidding good-bye to Hélène, the only friend he has ever known, he leaves the opera house, believing he will never return.

1864-1879 - This is Erik's "great hiatus," that time during which he has traveled the continent, gaining experience while performing as The Living Corpse (again, borrowing some from Leroux). His travels take him to the Middle East, where he lives for several years, again a la Leroux's Erik. Disenchanted with life in the outside world, he returns to Paris and to the comfort and safety of the opera house where once again, his old friend Hélène, now Mme Giry, welcomes him home. This covers Erik's life from age 16 to age 31.

1880-1881 - The events of the '04 movie. This has been moved forward 10 years because of the Franco-Prussian War. (See note above) It also fits in with both ALW's stage production as well as our dear friend, Gaston. Covers years 32-33 of Erik's life.

1881-1885 - The beginning of Erik's years in Egypt. Here, he reinvents himself. No longer the mysterious Phantom of the Opera, he is now the equally mysterious Erik Rien. He has turned his back on music, and instead has become a collector and dealer in rare art and antiquities. During this time, he has acquired a companion named A'aqil.

1886 - The events of Treasures of Egypt. He is now 38 years old -- a man in his prime.

1907 - The epilogue to this story and ties in once again with the movie. This time, the ending. Again, the date has been changed by 10 years so as not to have to deal with the aftermath of World War I.

I'm not sure how much of this will actually be used in this new story, but thought I'd let you in on how I work up a background for my characters.

Let me conclude this introduction with a huge thank my dear friend Lizzy. Throughout the writing process, Lizzy has been my beta, my editor, and as the story continued, became my co-author in many instances. This story sparked her imagination as much as mine, and often she would send me snippets of dialogue or suggestions for scenes. In almost every instance, those scenes and bits of dialogue would end up in a chapter.

And now, on with the story.

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Treasures of Egypt

By HDKingsbury
and MadLizzy

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system -- available today or in the future -- without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1 – The Catacombs

Abandon every hope, ye who enter here.
Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy

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"Halt! You are entering the Empire of Death!"

Erik sneered contemptuously at the warning carved into the stone and entered the ossuary with its piles of ancient bones. Though most Parisians were oblivious to the miles of tunnels beneath their feet, the subterranean passageways had been around for centuries, dating back to when Paris was a Gallo-Roman town called Lutetia and the tunnels were used to quarry limestone. It wasn't until the last century, however, that a government official came up with the idea of using some of these ancient rooms as repositories for the overcrowded cemeteries of the city.

Over the years, as the city's population had grown, the generations of dead began to overwhelm the many churchyards. The burying grounds became so gorged with bodies that they had become little more than public nuisances. Contamination from improperly performed burials, mass graves, and decomposing corpses all helped spread disease and pestilence throughout the neighborhoods. Something had to be done to alleviate the situation, and a plan was developed to clean up these cesspools. Thousands of remains were disinterred and removed to the ancient tunnels and galleries, the bones now resting in the massive vaults beneath the city.

Erik felt right at home.

Lighting his way through the dark passageways with a half-spent candle, he walked past one of the many crypts and into the room he had been using for the past two weeks. Once inside, he leaned back against the stone wall, allowing his body to slump down until he was sitting on the earthen floor. He tugged at the ragged coat he'd found earlier that afternoon in a dustbin, an unexpected but welcome discovery he had come upon during the day's scavenger hunt. He pulled it tight, trying to block out the chill. From one pocket, he pulled a small loaf of bread. This would be his supper. He took a few bites and chewed slowly, making the meal last.

He exhaled loudly and forced his body to relax.

Ever since the disaster at the Opera Populaire, he had been in hiding, hunted like the rabid animal he was. Yes, rabid. What other explanation could there be? He replayed that night over and over again in his mind. The plan had been perfect, or so he'd thought. The management of the Populaire had been persuaded to stage his great opera, Don Juan Triumphant, and Erik had convinced himself that if he took Signor Piangi's place on the stage and sang to Christine of his great love for her, she would not only understand but would reciprocate. Instead, the opposite happened. His actions had terrified her; he had forced her into a corner and ordered her to make her choice. And so she responded in the only way she could, by exposing him for the fraud that he was.

Something snapped in his mind that night, when she tore away his mask. The events that followed were little more than painful blurs of emotions. Everything, that is, except what Christine did next. In spite of all his wickedness, in spite of his threats to kill her young man, she had found it in her heart to show compassion. She kissed him. It was the first kiss, the only kiss, Erik had ever known. Even his own poor mother had been unable to look upon his ruined face, much less bestow a kiss upon it. In that moment, he knew the only thing he could do was to release the woman he loved to her vicomte and allow the two of them to leave.

Though the young couple could have helped the mob that by that time was hunting him down, Christine had convinced Raoul to do the opposite. They had deliberately misdirected the throng, giving Erik the time he needed to make his escape. During those precious seconds, before the angry rabble discovered their mistake, Erik had broken the mirror that disguised one of several egresses that led to the tunnels and catacombs of the Parisian underworld. And this was where he had been spending most of his time these days, going out only to get food and other necessities.

Discarding the all-but-spent candle, he reached for the miner's lamp on the floor and turned it on, illuminating his new home. With its electromagnetic induction coil, all he needed to do was turn the crank a few times, flip the switch, and voila! Let there be light! Every time he turned on the lamp, Erik thanked the forgetful worker who had left it down here in the tunnels.

He looked around, reassuring himself that no unwelcome tourists had come down to see the ossuary while he'd been out and discovered his hideaway, and noted with satisfaction that nothing had been disturbed. Over in the corner were the blanket and tins of food he'd 'borrowed' from a couple of houses above, along with a pack of matches and some candles, courtesy of a nearby church.

Erik stretched and yawned. His eyes burned; his neck and back ached. He flicked off the lamp and, closing his eyes, rested his head against the cold, damp stone.

Without illumination, the tunnels were so black, so quiet, that his mind often created things for him to see and hear. In the dark, he imagined he could still see every detail – the cracks in the limestone walls, the moisture dripping down in small rivulets, puddling on the ground. Sometimes, he imagined he was back under the opera house, the music filtering down, the darkness distilling it, cleansing it, removing the pain and suffering that had gone into creating it, leaving behind only its beauty. But mostly it was Christine's voice he heard – Christine singing in her debut the night of the gala; Christine at the cemetery, singing to her Angel of Music; and Christine, as Aminta, singing of her awakening passions for Don Juan.

No!

He jammed the heels of his palms again his forehead, attempting to erase the agonizing memories. He opened his eyes and turned the lamp back on, forcing back the phantoms that the darkness brought with it these days. He looked at his bleak surroundings yet again, assessing them.

How ironic that I, who once portrayed myself as Red Death, am now surrounded by so much death.

His gaze went back over towards the ossuary, and he made a mental game of counting the bones piled up and held in place in grotesque patterns and designs. How many were down here? How many dead had been removed from the cemeteries above and brought down here? Hundreds? No, many more than that. Thousands? Erik raised his hand to his forehead as he saluted the dead.

Requiescat in pace.

Exhausted, he reached over for his blanket in the pile of meager belongings he'd left there. He lay down on the floor, drew the blanket over him, and gave himself over to sleep.

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Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known?

Christine, I love you...

Track down this murderer, he must be found!
Hunt out this animal who runs to ground!
Track down this murderer!
Track down this murderer!

Erik woke with a start, his heart pounding rapidly. He reached for the lamp and turned it on. Had the sounds of the mob come from the tunnels? Had the gendarmes finally realized that the madman they sought had been below their very feet all this time? Or had it only been his dream? Erik laughed in spite of the dire situation and forced himself to calm down.

Two weeks had passed, and the authorities continued to scour the streets and alleys. In the days immediately following the fire, their ranks had been swelled by civilians who had their own ideas about how justice would best be served. But the crowd, like the fire, had finally burned itself out, and slowly their numbers dwindled. Erik imagined he could still hear their angry voices as they had come looking for him in the bowels of the opera house, and his emotions veered back and forth between anguish and anger.

Served the damn fools right, I gave them my music, I tried to make their world take flight, and how did they repay me? How did she repay me? I gave everything to Christine – my heart, my soul, my music. I was her Angel of Music; I gave her skills that, if left to those idiots at the opera, she would never have developed on her own. I gave and I gave and I gave and what did I get in return? I meant nothing to her.

He shook his head.

No! It wasn't her fault; it was mine. All my life I've had to take what I wanted. Rien! Nothing. I have nothing to show for all these years in the darkness. I began as nobody, and I shall end as nobody. I am Erik the Insignificant. Erik Nothing. Erik Rien.

He heaved a huge sigh, half in disgust with the world, half in disgust with himself. By now, he was fully awake. He wondered how long he had slept, what time it was, but even with the lamp on, it was impossible to tell if it was day or night. A pocket watch wouldn't have helped either; that is, if he'd had one. The only thing to do was to go above to find out. His stomach growled loudly. That settled it; it was time to eat. Hoisting himself up off the floor, he rolled up his blanket and tucked it away in a corner.

As he walked out of the room, he reached over and grabbed the felt hat he had appropriated a few nights ago. He hated having only its brim to cover his face, but he had been left with no other choice. All of his masks had been destroyed in the fire. He had brought this…this exposure on himself. Pulling it low over the damaged side of his face, he headed up.

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It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight, and Erik remained in the shadows as he acclimated himself to the outside world. It must have been midday. The streets were jammed with traffic. Horses were pulling trucks, carrying produce, ice, and dry goods. Knots of children ran up and down the street, playing. Adults on their way to whatever business they had to conduct looked down their noses at the street urchins. Nearby, a church bell tolled the noon hour.

No wonder I'm hungry. Time to find out what's for lunch.

But with so many people about, he needed to practice stealth. Keeping his hat pulled low, Erik used the crowd to hide his presence and jostled his way through.

Hide in plain sight! Fools, all of them!

A few minutes later, he was in a deserted alley, munching on a piece of cheese and an apple he'd pilfered. The warm breeze that had been blowing earlier picked up again, and some old newspapers fluttered past him. One piece of paper landed at his feet and stayed there, its words staring back at him, mocking him. The paper was several days old, the main article detailing the aftermath of the fire at the Opera Populaire.

As impossible as it sounded, he read that no one died as a result of the fire. Injuries? Yes, but no fatalities. Erik read further.

"Signor Ubaldo Piangi is expected to make a full recovery, although the future of his singing career is in doubt."

Erik balled up the paper and threw it aside in disgust, swearing.

Can't do anything right. The opera house…Piangi…Christine…

He stopped in his tracks at the thought of her name.

Christine!

Out of nowhere, tears welled up in his eyes. He crumbled onto his knees, wrapping his arms around his middle. He rocked to and fro, fighting off the pain inside.

Oh, Christine!

Erik knew he was close to suffering an emotional breakdown. Wracked with guilt, he contemplated turning himself in, but knew the best that awaited him was being locked away for the rest of his life in an institution for the criminally insane. That is, if he were lucky. More likely, he would face the humiliation of a public execution and a date with Mme Guillotine. No, neither option would do.

He forced himself to recover his self-control, then rose up and wandered aimlessly along the streets, ignoring the people. By the time he came to his senses, it was dusk. He glanced about, and saw that he was on a modest residential street, lined with houses and apartments. Without conscious thought, he had come to the apartment where Mme Giry lived.