Summary: He lost everything. His music.. his theatre and all the riches that he had. What more could he lose? Little did Erik know that he has a life far grander than what he could have hoped for. But he knew one thing in life, that nothing is freely given. And what if life itself.. his name.. his past are the things that he must give up in order to get the prize that he sought.

After two years of marriage to the Viscount of Chagny, Christine Daae is determined to prove that her husband did not commit a murder. The key to her husband's freedom led her to more surprises- and one that she does not clearly expect- the Phantom. But Christine will not be giving up her investigation even if she has to work with the devil himself- an astoundingly handsome and mysterious man whose dangerous allure can delve up the hidden and long buried passion in her heart.

Author's Note: The Phantom was not only an architect, designer, musician, and singer- he's also a magician- well, according to Madame Giry. I thought to use that bit of information to fit to the genre that I'm going to use. The story is mixed with supernatural and fantasy but I will not characterize him as an evil, black-hooded, scary man that will cast some spells to those who displeases him. No, I will only add some bit of fantasy here and there. I'll focus more with Erik in this story. What behind this and that- things that are a mystery to us about him. He seems the mysterious kind. And I'm terribly attracted to that type of characters. I'm really itching to write something about him.

I admit, I was reluctant to write something about this movie, not only because I'm used to writing one-shots but I'm not that confident that this will fit to the readers' appetite and criteria. I'll make you curious enough to read this, though. But I do hope you'll stick with this, if this story turns out quite pleasant enough for you.

~ Chapter One ~

LONDON

The outskirts of Paris was dark and daunting as the moon loomed behind the clouds. Its narrow roads extend to darker alleyways where all the possible criminals dwell. Not even the most agile bounty hunters could compete with those who professed in these streets.

Sharpe Winter swung on his feet; the small flicker of light from his cigar was the only indication of his presence, dangerous and sinister in his dark clothes. He was considered to be a dangerous man among the London and France city folks and he was quite pleased for being named as 'Lord Savage' after a mishap that started in a small tavern where he drunkenly beat and smacked everyone to sleep. Taverns in London lacks the savagery of the Lowlands or Highlands that he was accustomed of. After that incident, he didn't dare step near a tavern outside of Norway unless it can't be helped. He let his friends and brothers to do the brawling for him for he feared that he might wreak every tavern in the whole of London down with his drunken stupor.

He sauntered close to the shadows, waiting wearily, and went out when loads of cart was delivered to a carriage down by the corner. Their work was done.

He shouted in Gaelic to the men who unloaded the goods and threw a small pouch of coins to them. Black traders were strictly prohibited in the place and those who were caught paid for it dearly with their necks hanging in the gallows. Not that any of his men were reckless. He made it quite sure that their connections would not betray them. If so should they fail, they all better be prepared.

After glancing around for the last time, Sharpe took off with the other three who work with him. Life was indeed harsh. Men like him were forged like steel to stay emotionless and indifferent- like cold winter- to their works. Well, at least, that life was behind him now. Although, one couldn't stay away from vices that long.

There were times where desperation was going to laugh dearly at your face. Like dying of starvation. They stole great and expensive valuables from many estates, mansions, and townhouses around London and they exchanged it for food after they sell it to the very same class of men- or rather aristocrats- that they stole those things from.

They rode for days, only stopping for a quick change of horses, and went on with the journey. Sharpe never slept. They couldn't risk crossing with highwaymen, and they would not certainly survive a month without food. The women and children had already used everything that they could to prevent the plague that fell on Glenmore. The laird was killed in an ambush. And the whole council was in a dispute.

They stopped short for a short meal at a small inn. The ride ahead was dangerous for they were intruding in an enemy's land.

"Will you go on ahead?"

"Are ye mad? You can't go on alone if we're to leave you here!" A red-haired man exclaimed from the stables, pulling at the reins of two black Arabs. The horses' sleek and dark coloring was imperceptible in the darkness of the woods. Two men should at least ride separately, flanking the carriage at both sides, to fight easily when the enemy attacked. "What if Dornoch's men are patrolling the area?"

"That's no trouble, Colle. I'll take the hidden route. And even if that is to happen, I'll be able to distract them from you." Colle, as Sharpe's childhood friend and one of the best archers in Glenmore, has been the most loyal and reliable companion to him. The man's hard-headed and set ways to be the protective big brother to him was an annoying trait they both share, which left them in unending arguments.

"What's with this sudden impulse of yours? Got an eel in yer head, Sharpe? We've endured several changes of plans the moment we left Glenmore! Why, we traveled through a lake, hid among a herd of sheep…

By the time Colle finished half of his rantings, Sharpe had already tied a bagful of fruits to his horse's saddle. "If we didn't do any of those, we would have been tied to some post with our bodies battered to dust. Surely, our enemies will be pleased to no end."

"And for us to dress ourselves like mad witches?" He chuckled at the incredulous look at the man's face. "And chant and sing like that bizarre theater woman?" Colle grumbled on. Snatching a pile of grass from the horse's feedbox, he imitated a very haughty and ladylike posture, and fanned to himself with an exaggerated gracefulness. "I am, Carlotta Giudi- whatever, you dare trample on my.. err.. peacock of a dog?" He, then, threw the grass away with a very angry scowl.

This time, Sharpe didn't try to hold back the laughter, he howled until there were tears in the corners of his eyes.

He remembered how Colle had unintentionally kicked the said dog with a peacock costume and intentionally kicked it again when he didn't know it was really a living and breathing dog. And the simple deed could have been resolved easily by running away. But no, Colle didn't recognize bitches with a pretty seductive face until it's too late. They ended up facing the most peculiar buxom creature to ever slap Colle in the face.

Sharpe couldn't fault his friend. The dog, indeed, looked like a peacock with its fur glued with colorful feathers. It was not moving in the hallway, and the costume was to be blamed for certain. Poor dog..

"Come now, Colle, let us not 'trample' on people's high reserve of themselves or their... pets." Sharpe straightened from where he stood and rubbed his eyes with his shirtsleeves.

"But she's killing that dog! Forcing it to be a bird for pity's sake. If all the actresses in that theater are like her, then it's not surprising how the place erupted into flames."

"That's enough." Sharpe said, knowing that his friend won't stop until he had said all the possible sarcastic remarks he knows. "Let's get back to work. I'll visit Old Naan and give them some food. They saved us from that damned plague. God knows we would have been dead by now, if weren't for them." He was on the process of taking a sack of rice- when something caught his eye.

"Ye Gods, what's with these loads anyway? The horses easily tire and we've travelled only for two days since we've changed provisions. By the weight of these, we can last a year and never worry that we'll starve." Another man said as he hoisted himself on one of the horses.

"Well, let us hope that all of those are goods, and not some comely wench Sharpe fished from some tavern." Colle chuckled, waiting for some cutting remark from his friend, but nothing came.

"It seems that tis no wench." He showed a dark coat to them. "Where did this come from? Did anyone of ye rob some wealthy bastard's stinkin' wardrobe again? Didn't I already told ye, ye thick headed chaps that we must cover our tracks? " All of them shook their heads in denial.

"It must be from the Gypsy lads, and nothing of importance." Yes, it must be.. but something about it was bothering him. It was certainly not from Glenmore. He checked the carriage and carts before they left. He checked the goods twice before they left Paris. And it certainly wasn't there. Something's amiss.. .

"No wench would own something as ominous as this. And the smell," he sniffed at the soft and thick fabric. "It smells like.. . cinders."

AU: Erik will be coming up next.