Author's Notes: This is based on both the musical and the book, but primarily the musical. Certain facts come from the book. This is also the beginning of another long fic that I'm working on because my computer is in the repair shoppe, thus cutting off my access to All the Point of View. Enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE
The Simple Answer

"I'd like to believe in something more than a dream..."
-- No Use for a Name, "Solitaire"

It seemed so hopeless in the beginning; how I had blown that up from hopeless to illogical belief in the impossible was still a question I had in my tortured mind. Agony coursed through me as I thought of her, my dear, sweet Christine, in the arms of a naïve and inexperienced boy, who would, most likely, abuse her in ways that might even be subtle or unseen. But I couldn't stand the idea that she would be mistreated even in vague and unclear ways, even if one of those ways was pampering her until she was spoiled and pompous. Even the idea that she would be brought into the world by that young boy, into his unwise hands to be prone to the dangers of the world, was abuse to my angel.

Oh, this pain was so acute! Why was I thinking about her again? All I felt when I thought of Christine was pain, pain so sharp and unbearable that I thought I might die of it someday! So why, why did I keep thinking of her?

A simple question, Erik, deserves a simple answer, a voice in my head, which I had never heard speak before, replied. You think of her because you love her.

I sighed, moving into the drawing room and sitting in my chair. The voice was right. No matter what she had done to me, no matter what pain I had endured for her, I still loved her. She was everything; I kept thinking of her because she had been my salvation, saved me from becoming insane. I have no doubts now that were it not for my beloved, I would be nothing but an animal in the body of a . . . or, actually, I shall leave it at animal.

I looked about into the darkness of my house, which had always been comforting. But it wasn't anymore. Nothing seemed to provide comfort anymore. Ever since she left, I had never been content, not even with my music. All my compositions seemed sour, all my previous comforts seemed obsolete and oddly boring.

Absently I wondered what opera was playing that night. Perhaps I could go and pull my mind off the pain. It was so quiet in my house; and yet, I couldn't escape the silence. I couldn't play and I couldn't sing—everything was so unsatisfying now! I had the ability to do so much, but what of use are abilities if there is no heart behind them?

Slowly I rose from my chair, pacing about the room at a deliberate pace. Images of Christine kept flashing through my mind, and I smiled sadly in spite of myself. Perhaps, just perhaps, she might come back. . . .

Soon after I thought them, I banished those foolish thoughts. Of course she would come back! And my name is Raoul de Chagny!

Then for a moment I thought about that. I might like my name to be Raoul de Chagny. I might like to be handsome and rich. I might like to be a Vicomte. And I might like to be an idiot.

But after all, if being an idiot and being handsome would let me win the heart of Christine, how bad could it really be?

It would not do to dwell on these thoughts. Reluctantly I picked up my cloak, walked over to my front door and left the house, knowing that if the opera this evening was Faust, Il Muto, or Hannibal that I would be going back home.

There was the boat, swaying slightly on the soft current of the inky black waters. This lake had been my own for years; for some reason, that particular fact stood out in my mind as I climbed into it and pushed off the dock. The candles were almost invisible in the conspicuously high amount of mist on the lake, providing a mysterious atmosphere that suited my thoughts perfectly.

My melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the shudder of the boat hitting the opposite bank's dock. Oh, I'm here already?

It didn't really matter. I got out of the boat very slowly, trying not to think about her. I was so consumed in thought that I hardly realised that I had made my way up to the top of the hundreds of stairs in the Opéra.

Again, the thought ran through my troubled mind. I'm here already?

I hadn't been up here in so long. It had been months since I had ventured to go to the Opéra. I had only left my house in those past months for necessary parts of life—primarily food, but in very small quantities; I hate eating. I hadn't even a clue who the new tenor was, or if there even was one. No doubt that the absence of a principal tenor was better than Piangi. I hardly believed it possible for there to be a worse tenor than he.

It was a slow walk to my box. I had no doubts that it would be sold, seeing as I'd made no comment to the managers or alerted them of my presence for the past five months. But to my great astonishment, as I settled myself in the hollow column of Box Five, I discovered it wasn't. After I did get settled, I began to listen to the words being sung.

"We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea,
But please promise me that sometime
You will think of me. . . "

As if an electrical current had sparked through me, I was instantly rigid and wired. This was perturbing, completely unnerving, and yet the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. . . .

Christine!