A/N: Hello once again, fellow Phantom fans! This is now my third phanfic, and it looks to be a long one. I am not sure where this one is going to go yet, but you all know me to be a tried and true E/C shipper, so I am sure this ship will land there eventually. Unlike my last phic, I think I will write and post this one a chapter or two at a time. And be forewarned: this one will be far more angst-ridden than "Voyage dans la Lumière". Probably one or two scenes down the road will be earning the "M" rating, although I don't like to be graphic, so hopefully any violent scenes or love scenes will be tastefully done and I will give you fair warning in the author's notes as well.
Note: Be forewarned. There is a strong theme of suicide in this fic.
For background, this one is based on the 2004 movie with a few Leroux references possibly thrown in here and there. Once again, forget the black and white graveyard scene at the end of the movie. Pretend it never happened. Not that I don't like it, just that it doesn't fit with the plot. Six years prior to the start of this story, Erik watched his beloved Christine sail away with Raoul. That is really all you need to know.
Please read and review! (I love reviewers and I always reply. Review every chapter if you feel so inclined, I will still reply, but no flames, please.) On with the story at last!
-DarkestDreams
DISCLAIMER: As everyone knows, although I may wish it desperately with my entire being, I do not own Erik (darn it) or any of the classic POTO characters who you will recognize here. That credit belongs to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, etc. I haven't read the Kay book because I can't seem to get my hands on it (grrrr!), so I can't give her any credit for this one.
When Fate is Denied
Ch. 1 - Lost Souls
The rain streamed down the pane of the window forming long, twisting rivulets that converged upon one another and then diverged further down the glass, performing an intricate weaving dance upon its smooth surface. The dark figure behind the window stared out at the blurred images of the abandoned street; intense gray-blue eyes taking in everything, but seeing nothing.
He was lost once more in the twisted labyrinth of his thoughts, wandering in the dangerous, gray haze of the past. For it was in the past that his heart and soul resided: torn from him six years ago this night. Thus, it seemed only fitting that on this dark anniversary of sorts his mind would wish to return there, if only to reunite with those other parts of him that had been so long amiss.
Flashes of events, broken bits of conversation, velvet brown eyes filled with tears... The images danced before his mind one after another, showing themselves briefly, before being conquered mercilessly in the battle between mind and will. As always, his stubbornness would be the clear victor as it quickly crushed any semblance of feeling that might otherwise accompany his thoughts. He could not stop the horrible parade of memories, but he would be damned if he would allow himself to revel in it.
That was how he had managed to survive these past six years, by stripping himself bare of all emotion. Joy, love, compassion – none were allowed to exist in the cold, calculated world he had built for himself. A sorry, barren existence it may seem to the occasional onlooker, devoid of any of the warmer human emotions, but it had its benefits as well. For wherever joy, love, and compassion dwelt, their more deadly counterparts resided also – misery, hatred, and cruelty. Of these latter three, he felt he had more than his fill during his lifetime, and of the former three, well, he had never known enough of any of them to feel bereft in their absence.
Erik turned abruptly from the window, victorious in the battle against his mind for the moment, and seated himself at the formidable mahogany desk in the center of the room. There, he immersed himself for a time in his work: calculating measurements, making notes, and finally sketching relentlessly - as if his quick, deft hands could not keep up with the torrent of ideas rushing forth from his brilliant, impatient mind. By the magic of his skilled hand, a magnificent structure was taking shape on the paper before him. After several more hours of tireless effort, the sketch was complete.
He eyed it critically, frowning slightly as he searched in vain for any noticeable flaw. Any other observer would have thought the sketch more a work of art than an architectural blueprint; such was his style and skill. But Erik's critique was not that of a casual observer. His eye demanded utter perfection. In this case, however, even he could find no fault. The beauty of the structure nearly leapt off the page.
Beauty was something of great importance to Erik. That much was clearly evident in both the sketch and the room around him. Exotic dark wood and fine fabrics in deep jewel tones marked the space, as well as shelf upon shelf of finely bound, leather covered volumes of great literature covering the walls. An exquisitely detailed Persian rug in a rich shade of red adorned the floor beneath the heavy mahogany desk. Overall, it was an affluent and thoroughly masculine space, but in no way overdone. Instead, the room merely seemed to reflect the flawless taste and complex depth of the man who had created it.
At half past one in the morning, with his first project complete and neatly rolled in leather to protect it from the seemingly never-ending rain, Erik withdrew several more clean sheets of paper and set to his calculations once again. He had realized long ago that he needed far less sleep than most people, and the comforting shadows of the night had always suited him far better than the unforgiving light of day. The hours after midnight were often his most productive and satisfying, and it was common for him to retire only one or two hours before awaking and setting to his day's work once again.
Absorbed in his endeavors, he did not hear at once the hesitant knock on his study door. Gradually, however, the knocking grew in both volume and insistence to a point at which he could no longer ignore it. Cursing in frustration, he strode to the door, flinging it open rather rudely.
"What?" he barked irritably.
Henry, his butler for the past five years was accustomed to Erik's frequent tempers, and did not flinch at the warning in his master's tone. He was no fool, and was well aware that his master would not appreciate being interrupted, but the matter at hand required his attention. Had it not, he would never have been so foolish as to disturb him. Thus, he stood tall and unfazed by the angry eyes and forbidding presence staring down at him.
"There is someone at the front door, sir."
Erik frowned slightly, his tone one of blatant impatience. "Well, obviously as my butler, you should inform him that I do not receive unwelcome visitors in the middle of the night."
Henry was also accustomed to Erik's familiar biting sarcasm and his courage did not wither beneath it now. "It is a woman, sir."
Erik's eyes widened with shock. Feeling thoroughly vindicated, Henry continued. "I would send her away, certainly sir, but she seems to have collapsed on the doorstep. She is soaking wet and appears unconscious. What would you have me do, sir?"
Erik stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then without so much as an apology, pushed past Henry, and descended quickly down the stairs.
The front door was open just a crack, rain seeping onto the polished marble floor of the foyer. As Erik reached the doorway, he hesitated for a moment, then jerked the door open its full span.
He stood dumbstruck. Though her face was not visible in the tangle of wet hair and clothing, he would have known her slight form anywhere. Christine.