Phantom of the Opera fan fiction, contains no original characters or settings. It inhabits a place somewhere between the new movie and the Leroux book... but more towards the movie.

Apollo's Lyre

I sat, as I often did, alone and leprous in the welcome cold of night. On Apollo's lyre, a seat of such sweet sorrow and animalistic anger. It was here I overheard that conversation which inspired such terror and exhaustion from my rotting soul. A frightened chattering of lonely lips and over-stimulated minds, of little girls in mortal terror of the beating of their heart, of brunettes and blondes and tall, dark, handsomes… Of Christine… Of Erik… and Raoul.

Raoul, always bloody Raoul – there he is, holding her hand! There he is, kissing her lips! This poor, love-struck fop, so smitten by my angel… MY angel, indeed, for it was I who gave her her wings and allowed her to soar. Without me, she'd be but a chorus girl among many, never to catch the little Vicomte's eye. A beautiful, immensely special chorus girl… oh, to think of her so badly hurts me. It pains me almost as much as hearing her fear for me. Me… her Angel of Music… we've shared so many beautiful moments together, so many infatuated embraces in the humble night. Never did I overstep my welcome, or force upon her my affections. She always welcomed me further, always followed me as I lead her lovingly to that garden of earthly…

But it did not happen, not for all the good intentions and infatuations flying round that nightmare room. The candles weren't the only lights of passion smoldering quietly, nor was Don Juan the only lover so close to triumph in that arena of affection I call home.

Oh, sweet heart of mine, you hurt me so to think of those seconds with Christine. The smell of her hair, my only reason for living, the touch of her hand so soft and gentle and caring against this face so terrifying… I could have died right there, to become that Angel which she thinks so highly of. I could have killed a thousand innocent men on the spot, had their blood been able to prove to her how much I cared. But she does not care for ghosts or blood and or even… me…

A wandering child, I can only hope my place in her heart is not that of sympathy or flattering good humour, that her little intakes of breath whenever I draw near are not those of a little girl facing her monster. She looks at me with those eyes of beauty, those eyes so wide and full of desire – but whome do they burn for…? They look at me, but do they glance at everyone with equal intensity, like an oil lamp or lighthouse in the masterless night… do they ensnare every poor fool that wanders into their divine light? Do they seethe in anger when I look away? Do they see past my masque of pity into the wretched corpse beneath…?

Oh, Christine… what God made you, if not to trap me in those eyes and murder me with those lips?

Footsteps, don't think that I don't hear you coming up those stairs, hurried and clumsy like a thief who –

Ah… never have I been more pleased to eat my words, for those footfalls were not clumsy at all, but that of an Angel…

I removed myself from Apollo's lyre and busied myself to those shadows in secret. Christine, so radiant, her face was flushed with sorrow – who for? Not me, not Erik… and not Raoul, for I have not killed him just yet…

"Angel, please… I need you, I need you so badly." She sobbed. My heart was tearing itself in half with every tear drop that fell to the unthankful snow. I moved to her, silently, as slowly as I could force myself to behave. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I need you… I need you…"

"You need me…" I whispered, holding my voice from breaking. "Christine, you have me." And with a furious need to touch, we embraced each other swiftly. She was so small and fragile in my arms as I wrapped her in my cape, as I hugged her as tightly as I could. She buried her face in my chest and gave forth a wave of happy sobbing, and I too cried, for there was nothing else more beautiful between us. I kissed her hair and cradled her head, my tears like diamonds in those wavy locks. We stood like this, within our private paradise, till she looked up and gifted me with the most wonderful present I have ever received.

"I love you…" She smiled with so much joy. "Erik!"

Oh, I could have died. But had I died, I would never have known, for I was already in heaven! She loved me! Not the Angel of Music, not the Phantom of the Opera, but Erik! I grinned, grinned with the stupidest expression any lover has ever carried and then I kissed her. Our lips met and every drop of hunger and desire our mortal shells could carry was expressed. Our hands found new life in their passion for our bodies; we groped and hugged like nothing else was keeping us together.

Oh, I swept her off her feet then, this tiny thing I love so much, and carried her in my arms back down those rickety stairs. We flew past ballerinas, shocked and mortified, past two managers old and indignant, past the foppish Vicomte as he broke out in tears. We didn't hide ourselves! We weren't ashamed of how much we loved one another. How beautiful we were in each others arms!

To the cellars, past the lake, to that dying swan all laced in rose red silks and adorned by candles. She didn't faint this time, as I gently placed her down. I kiss her skirts, her stockings, her corset, she loves my playful praising! Her dainty hands are raised and trace the lines of my mask. I flinch and move to turn, but her finger captures my lips and stops the embarrassed child from winning. She gently pulls it from my face, and then …

And then…

And then I woke from my dream atop Apollo's lyre, I woke alone and frosted in snow.

At first I wished to bellow, to shout out for the sanguine night to bring me back my Christine. To return my love to me… to…

I sat in silence, heavy silence. Most morbid and morose, me this monster so heartbroken and disgusting. And I couldn't help but muse, that with all creatures who feed on music, it's when we're silent that we make ourselves stand out. When angels are quiet, when the music is stopped…

I had no songs, nor curses, to offer to the night for his most grievous injustice to me.

Just tears upon the snow upon Apollo's lyre.