Disclaimer: Unfortunately, even though dearest Erik has come to live with me as my muse (-wink, wink-), I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. That honour would go to M. Gaston Leroux due to his fabulous 1911 publication. Also, any material relating to the musical-storylines, songs, etc.-belongs thoroughly to Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Author's Note: I will be using both M. Leroux's book and Webber's musical as resources for the following phanphiction. Please do not be surprised if I make subtle references to events in the new 2004 movie or otherwise use the scenes blatantly in flashbacks, dream sequences, etc. However, a majority of the phanphiction will be based on the book. You would do quite well to imagine Erik as Leroux described him, though I won't bother with explaining that here.

Concerning Future Updates: I may or may not continue this phanphiction. It is the first serious piece of work I have ever pledged to even consider finishing, let me warn you, and I haven't really come up with an entirely plausible idea. I am hoping that Erik and the others will make the storyline seem a little more credible as the phic progresses, but I will be relying on reviews to keep up motivation. Please remember to respond with criticisms and the like. Thank you. (And yes, this is the Prelude, not the first chapter. This is just sort of... Explanatory. Eheh.)

Prelude

I lunged, without thought or apprehension, toward the viscount, lacerating his left arm with my ever-handy rapier. Really, it would have been much easier had I only brought my Punjab lasso, though I decided that reprimanding myself must come later. His cry of pain and rage alike was pleasing to the ear and yet made the hatred for my love's young suitor grow... I had no problem with throwing him to the side upon the snow, eagerly lifting my weapon into the air so as to bring it down upon his breast. However, Christine's voice, a little, timid gasp, filled the air, and I was at once occupied with the frightened timbre it produced...

I was taken by surprise when the vicomte de Chagny suddenly came back into my view, standing, and proceeded to thrust at me with his own sword. I dodged his attack swiftly-my years as the infamous Opéra Ghost had taught me much about movement-though I was incapable of regaining my balance in time to prepare a counterattack. The boy knocked me to the earth, using the same method as I had, and in mockery raised his right hand into the air. My chest was exposed... The blow would come all too quick... And, alas! Deja vu! Again we heard Christine's voice, this time loud and pleading for my life.

"Raoul, no! Not like this..."

I glared at him, not breaking the eye-contact. Was he a coward? I was at his mercy. He could easily do with me as he pleased... He could kill me, then and there, and have everything over with. And yet, for a long, silent moment, he did not; and he sheathed his sword and began walking to Christine. It took them no time to mount the white horse I knew so well, César, and gallop past me through the graveyard, in the direction of the Opéra house.

Slowly, I gathered myself and stood. The boy spared me. Oh, why? I was his rival, the sole object of his loathing. A real man would have done away with any threat to his lady. I certainly would have. In my mind, I resolved that the vicomte would pay for his actions in due time... His foolish decision would lead him to death, for I wanted no one's pity, least of all his. And Christine would see, as well... Yes... It all came together. I would fetch her during Don Juan, for she cannot resist my music. She loves my music, and so she loves me... She cannot deny me during my opera. And then I would make her my wife... And then I may kill Raoul, simple as that, because Christine will have chosen me, and I will not have to fear her grief. Yes...

"Now, then," I muttered, gasping for breath, "let it be war... Upon you both!"

I woke with a start, clutching the bloodred fabric which draped the inside of my coffin. Another nightmare... Another horrid recollection of my past, of the people that littered it... Thank God it was only that, however, and not reality, for I do not think I would have been able to bear a second duel with my soul-mate's spouse... Not now that I know Christine would see me die rather than her beloved husband... Oh, Christine...

Reluctantly, I climbed out of "bed," if one can call it such, and made my way to the organ, where I seated myself and placed my naked hands upon the keys. Had Christine been in the house, I would have taken care to wear gloves so that she would not have to see the yellow tint of my skin or the skeletal construction of my too-thin fingers. Now, however, there was no need; but still I kept my mask. One never knew... Besides, I had grown used to it, and through the years safety replaced burden. I felt confident behind that black facade... My death-like deformity could not frighten away innocent young maidens or cause other similar catastrophes if it remained hidden, after all.

I hesitated, unsure of my intention here before an instrument. Don Juan Triumphant was finished... I had no reason to compose any other operas; no, that would keep me alive longer... I suppose that I craved something to do, something to intoxicate my senses and befuddle them so that I would not have to think of Christine. She lingered constantly upon my thoughts, was the centre of all my anxieties... I fought to convince myself that music would only remind me. My newfound misery was too strong, and it would produce an anguished sound surely to kill any human that heard it-smite them with sorrow!

I thought, involuntarily, about the daroga. Was he doing well? Did he, too, assume I was dead? Of course... I sent him Christine's things only a few nights before, my most valued possessions above or below the earth, and no doubt he published an advertisement concerning my death in l'Epoque as I instructed. Perhaps, though, in spite of all that, it would not be too startling to pay him a visit...

Various scenes, all of them concerning the daroga's reaction upon finding me alive, danced through my mind as I snatched my gloves and walked through the bedroom, past the abandoned Louis-Philippe room, and out into the darkness of the fifth cellar. My boat-a beautifully crafted thing, indeed-floated upon the stagnant waters with an elegance that soothed me. Soon I would be in it, traveling through this God-forsaken dungeon. I would be the Opéra Ghost again, leaving my humble, subterranean abode and making one more appearance to the ballet rats, who always seem to catch some glimpse of me. At least I meant something to them... At least rumours and tales of my existence kept them amused...

I navigated my way through the lower levels of the Opéra and then down the alleys of Paris, keeping the collar of my cloak upturned as I had forgotten to replace my usual mask with a less-telling guise. It wasn't a necessity, though, as I didn't anticipate being seen by the pedestrian; but my pride and genius sometimes land me in the midst of trouble, therefore the use of caution seemed wise.

I arrived shortly after my departure to the daroga's flat. Evening was beginning to fade... Nighttime descended slowly across the sky, glorious shades of azure and cobalt taking the place of once-roses and -violets. Due to the coming shadows, it would not be a hazard to stand before the door. Even if someone walked past, they would see only a man in a cloak and hat, for my back would be turned to them, and a man dressed such as I at this time is not entirely atypical.

Thrice was heard the sound of someone knocking at the door-and apparently first by Darius, who opened it in a matter of seconds. I saw his eyes become wide with what I supposed was incredulity.

"I wish to speak with the daroga, if you will."

I did not have to repeat my command. Darius briskly turned and disappeared 'round a corner. After briefly consulting with his invisible master, I heard two sets of footsteps, both of which were rapidly growing louder; and then the daroga stood before me, wrought with skepticism and anger. I watched as either emotion faded into the same disbelief that Darius had met me with. Then the daroga greeted me as if it had been any other day, though his tone was less welcoming. In fact, it was weary and uncertain, almost like the poor man felt he walked in a dream.

"Ah, Erik... Come in. You have something to tell me?"

"Nothing to tell you," I replied, crossing the threshold of the small building.

"What, then?"

I scrutinized the Persian for a moment, signaling with my left hand for Darius to let my cloak be. The avid young servant always presented me with the honor of having my cloak taken and hung up, so that I would not have to manage with the exertion of doing it myself. He was a good servant, you know, and very loyal. I suspected he was like family to the daroga, who was otherwise most alone-like myself, in a sense, though just barely.

"I've come to see you... And, unfortunately, what I see is terrible. You look emaciated and half-dead. Really, my dear daroga, that is no way to spend your retirement."

I sat down and removed my hat, handing it to Darius, who was glad to hang it where my cloak would have gone. A worthy compensation to him.

"My retirement is none of your concern, Erik," the Persian reproached.

"Quite the contrary," I replied. "The fact is you have not had a retirement. You've spent all your life, or at least a majority of it, following me. And when you thought me deceased, you thought also that your life's quest was done. Is that it, my good daroga? Have I figured you out?"

A tense silence filled the space between us. I took up the duty of demolishing it.

"It appears that I have. Well, daroga, your quest is not finished. Here I sit. Alive, I fear."

"To what purpose, Erik?" he asked me solemnly. "Christine is gone; so is the vicomte. There is nothing, Erik, nothing! What do you wish of me? What have I got to give you...? Would you like me to return her papers and whatnot? I cannot give you the past, you must know..."

I was somewhat surprised by his indignant outburst. In truth, I didn't know what I was doing here, only that I was away from the Opéra, breathing fresh air... But the cruel implication of Christine's elopement brought me both despair and realization. I was trying to escape her, once againAnd yet I never would be able to leave behind the memory of her voice... Of her untainted beauty...

I spoke in a calm, deliberately mournful fashion.

"Daroga, I come seeking nothing. Nothing, perhaps, save sanity."

"I cannot give you that, either, Erik."

"I'm sure you can provide me with company. If I do not first die of heartache, I shall die of solitude; but they are all the same to me now."

The daroga sat himself down in a chair adjacent to my own, sighing blatantly. I could see a helpless kind of expression cross his face in the candlelight, and his slitted brown eyes betrayed the turmoil of his soul, a turmoil I had brought up myself by arriving here unexpectedly. 'Til now, I was dead... He had been... My God, I thought, he had been relieved! Was I really that taxing...?

"Erik," he said to me, "you know that I would do anything for you. I proved that when I saved your life years ago, before we came to France. But I can't make her come back."

"I am not asking you to," I spat, offended. "That is not your place. If I wanted her back, I would find her myself."

Again he sighed, taking a worn astrakhan cap from the top of his head and placing it at his feet. For a moment, he was most consumed with contemplation-then he came back around and clapped his hands, calling for Darius. I do not have to say that the faithful little man re-entered the room at once, inquiring what his master asked for though he did not use words. It was a fascinating bond that the two had, in which either rarely used speech to communicate. They did not need to. Time, experience, and love had woven the two souls in such a way that I envied and despised them. They had each other... Like kindred brothers. Only death could separate them... And, privily, I at once wished that it would.

"My coat, please," muttered the Persian.

Bewildered, I gazed on as Darius retrieved the aforementioned coat, producing it for the daroga-who stood and slipped it on, donning his cap once again.

"Also," he continued, gesturing to myself, "tend to Monsieur."

"What?" I inquired, "Do you think to take me somewhere?"

I stood, regardless, and allowed the daroga's servant to lend me my fedora. I hastily fitted it over my head and waited for a reply, which came after a long pause filled with trepidation.

"Yes, Erik. I am taking you away from Paris."

I scoffed. Take me away from Paris? I could not go back to Persia... Even there I was proclaimed deceased; and it would be dangerous enough for the daroga himself, as well, who was bid never to return after assisting in my "assassination."

"Well, where? Persia is out of the question; I'm sure you've recognized that."

"Of course it is. I do not intend to take you there."

"Then, please, daroga... Answer my question."

Without saying a word, the daroga crossed the room and extinguished each lighted candle (I noticed that there happened to be eight), and relied on the newborn moonlight, streaming through the windows, to guide him to the door, which he promptly opened. Then, turning to me:

"Erik, well over three weeks ago you came to this very place to tell me that you were about to die. Well, you were right... I assumed that, with your death, my own could at last take place. I have followed you, indeed... You know your promises, all of them shattered in some form. Erik, if you were to cause some tragic event as you did with the chandelier or otherwise murder once more, it would not only be on your head, but mine. After all, I saved you from that needless execution knowing that you would probably eliminate anyone that barred you from what you wanted-"

"And? What does your decision have to do with me, other than that I am alive? I did not order you to save me. And, yes, you certainly did know what I was capable of doing."

"Yes," he cried, exasperated, "but let me finish! Erik, you are not dead as I thought and as Christine and m'sieur le vicomte must think... And I do not doubt that, if you wanted Christine-and you do-you would eventually go and find her!"

"Daroga," I whispered, "you are mistaken. She turned the scorpion, to save her lover... And she spurned it thereafter. But she... She k-"

I faltered. I had meant to say, 'She kissed me,' for that was the one memory I would always cherish... The only, singular act of love I had ever been faced with. She had kissed and wept with me... Her heart, for a little while, belonged to me. Her compassion was mine. For that reason I let her go. I would always be a part of Christine; but, alas, she would always be a part of her little viscount! I recognized that... And the Persian, if he had any wit, might have understood that I knew, though to him I would eternally be a savage monster worthy of pity and yet incapable of receiving real compassion. I was not to be trusted under any circumstance whatsoever.

I heard him speaking, suddenly, although I could not make out his words. I could no longer see... A grand, distinct throbbing began in my chest and would not cease. Again I felt Christine's lips upon my forehead... Again I felt her many tears trickle sweetly beneath my mask; again I tasted them and longed not to lose even one... I recalled, little by little, every beautiful second that passed between us during that hour. How I removed my mask... And how, in spite of my horrible, wicked face, she did not run or shriek, but somehow saw the man that lingered, trapped, inside the corpse. The pain became unbearable and I clutched at my vest, moaning as if I were dying... And, for the second time in my life, I believed that I was.

The daroga wasted no time in rushing to my side, helping me back into a chair. It was wrong of me to lose control of myself... It was wrong of me to become vulnerable, but the daroga usually did not mind my lamentations.

I became suffocated behind the mask. Between the sobbing and coughing I was hardly able to procure a breath, and instead of removing my mask altogether as I had done during my last visit, I decided simply to raise it over my mouth.

I could see, before the holes of the mask reserved for my eyes passed above them, the Persian grimace. Even my mouth, virtually lipless-they conform so well to my teeth one would think I did not have lips at all-was disturbing enough to make a grown man turn away. Oh, I thought, Christine, Christine... How? How did you look at me and still kiss me? How did you cry with me-for me...? My angel! My angel! My God... I let you go... You deserved happiness, though you are gone! And I have no reason to live! Why did I come here...? Why did I try...? Oh, believe l'Epoque, Christine, for I can bear no more!

"Christine!" I wailed, and the Persian pulled me into a loose embrace. It took several minutes for me to regain enough of myself that I could speak again.

"Daroga..."

"Say nothing, Erik."

I glanced up at him, hopeless. "I am sorry for bringing you such trouble..."

"Erik, I told you to say nothing."

He stood and made his way back to the door, where Darius stood, looking on hesitantly. I listened as Darius received orders to ready his master's carriage, watched as he disappeared. Then the daroga leaned himself against the doorway and hung his head in a forlorn manner. Much time passed in this way; enough time, at least, for Darius to have the horses ready and the carriage pulled around front.

The daroga turned in my direction, his eyes shining-perhaps, if I do not flatter myself, with tears.

"Come, Erik. This will do you good."

I asked no questions, begged for no answers. I merely raised and walked weakly toward the Persian, still overcome with woe. He allowed me out into the night and shut the door behind us, locking it with a set of keys he keeps constantly in the inner pocket of his robes. Quietude was our only companion until well after we clambered into the carriage-I with much effort-and it was broken but once when the Persian at last revealed to me our destination by instructing Darius as to the direction he should take.

"We go to Luxembourg. And please, take care to avoid the Rue Scribe... Erik does not need to see the Opéra at this time."