This fic is co-written by Izzi (penname=Erik Spice) and me. Basically, I write for Erik and she writes for nearly everyone else (especially Eponine). The basic premise is that Erik is timewarped back into the Les Misérables time.

A shimmer descended over the nighttime streets of Paris. It was too dim to clearly see, rippling between the houses and around the opera.

Into this faint unseen glow walked the shadowed figure of a man, whose golden eyes seemed to reflect the glow and make it amplified.

The shimmer collapsed, and the world whirled.

Erik fell through the tapestry of existence, landing again in the nighttime streets of Paris, changed into those of an earlier time. He looked around, taking in the changes. With all the sadness, perhaps I have become mad. Well, he was not to think of that now. Nothing looked right... but ignore that. His intended last words to give to the Persian still fresh in his mind, he set through the streets, trying to find his way in a city transformed. But as the night wore on, he realized that he had become lost, the landmarks no longer familiar.

He passed a few small houses and endearments in shadow; it seemed as if night had just fallen. Without knowing it, Erik passed a small garden in which an elderly man was reading. As the sun was rising, he grew nervous... if he should be seen, well, in the open... he could not let himself be exposed! He looked around, frantically, not seeing any good hiding place nearby.

"Père Mabeuf," said a man's voice from the garden a few steps away; "would you like me to water your garden?"

Erik darted behind a fencepost, looking out to see who had spoken; not a man at all, actually.

A frail girl stepped out, into the garden, before the elderly man. She was very young, perhaps around the age of sixteen, and wearing almost nothing, her arms hidden by a shawl in the twilight. Her appearance was disturbing, though her face not unpleasant—had she not been battered by the elements, she may very well have been pretty. Now, though, her face was shallow, her eyes bleak, and some of her teeth missing. It must have been her, Erik realized, who had been speaking to the old man.

The elderly man, Mabeuf, as she had called him, seemed alarmed by her sudden and almost ghostly appearance. Before he could say anything, the girl had filled the watering can and was going from plant to plant, soaking each, the water spilling onto her bare feet.

Erik backed into the shadows, his eyes coming aglow again as he receded into the darkness. Poor girl. Poor ailing girl. His eyes turned back to his surroundings, and he edged into an alleyway. And poor lost Erik. Where would he go? It would be a long way to the opera house, if he could even find it anymore.

He faintly heard the old man say, "You must be an angel, for you so care for flowers."

"I am no angel," said the other. "I'm a demon, but it's all the same...to me."
The next part of the conversation was quiet, and Erik couldn't hear it, although more than once the girl asked after a Monsieur Marius. The old man gave a long, quiet explanation and suddenly the girl ran from the garden, her eyes a bit brighter. She didn't notice Erik, even though she sped past him.

Once she had left, Erik continued on his way. If he could not find the way to the opera house soon, at least he should find some place of refuge. After wandering for a time, he came to an old market-garden farmhouse, in which he decided to await the night.

If the world changes around me, he thought, it must be that I am changing within it. When I realize that there is no one in the world to love me for myself, and that it only remains that I should die, surely then comes the time that I can no longer see the world as it is. Nothing will stay constant! Christine must be torn from me, and I must let it pass. Everything else must change. It is as if I am in my own chamber of mirrors, to see a new world, one without the hope of Christine loving me, without even the same Paris. And there is no escape but to die.

His mind wandered further and further into darkness. It is my own torture... if no one can care for me, there must be no one. Erik must be shut away. Everything will be shut away. All my desires went to Christine, and now they are passed away. His thoughts deepened, lonely, bereft, and muted into a calm feeling of emptiness, until there was nothing left.

Reviews are highly craved! By both of us, really. So, as soon as you reach the bottom of the story, go hit the review thingy and post something, be it as detailed or as sparse as your own emotions.

Also, I would like to put in a mention of the excellently epic phic "Don Juan's Reckless Daughter," which is co-written by Izzi and Liz; again, you will find it under Izzi's penname, Erik Spice. Great characters, interesting plot; indeed, I recommend it so highly that I shall be a co-writer of the sequel.

While I'm advertising fics, I'll put in a mention of my drama/humor fic based off of the opera La Traviata. You need not be familiar with the opera to read it, really.

Erik smily! 8}