He has worn many names. Not all of them, in truth, actual names. Trapdoor Lover. Master of Illusions. The Devil's Right Hand. Angel of Music. More too, besides, though those were some particular favourites. Opera Ghost is only the latest in the long line. Evidently Phantom of the Garnier was too much of a mouthful for some.
But there have been the actual given names too. He does not remember the one he was born to, was baptised to (at least he assumes he was baptised. It would not overly surprise him to discover otherwise). He did not wear it long enough, cast it aside at the first opportunity and besides, it was not as if he was often called by it as things were.
The first name he remembers bestowing upon himself was Jan. He was in Brussels at the time, and later when he crossed into Prussia, Jan became Joachim. Then Joachim hurriedly became Matthias due to a rather dramatic turn of events that he prefers not to remember.
In time, Matthias gave way to Gianluca on the outskirts of Rome, and Gianluca fit him quite comfortably though he rarely had cause to give it to anyone, and he kept it all the way to Russia. Anatoly, he decided, sounded dignified, and so it was Anatoly that he became. It was as the Singing Corpse-slash-Master of Illusions-slash-Anatoly that the dear old Daroga first knew him. Then he was given Trapdoor Lover which subsumed Anatoly and before he knew it he was walking nameless. Or, to put it another way, riding nameless hellbent for leather out of Persia as fast as his mare could carry him.
He never took a Persian name. It would have weighed oddly, and besides, it was not as if he was trying to blend in.
As he rode through the land of the Ottomans he remained nameless, until one chance meeting meant he had to find a name quickly and it was then that Erik popped unbidden into his mind. He has no memory of thinking of it, no memory of ever having been acquainted with an Erik, or of reading of one, or being told of one in stories. Perhaps it is only because of the way it occurred, as if planted in his mind by some sort of magic, that he has been able to stick with it, has been able to wear it for so very long without it becoming worn.
He has considered changing it. Has considered venturing elsewhere. To England, perhaps. Or to America where a man such as him can hide and hide forever without being found. Such a move would necessitate a change to some inconspicuous name. Like John. Or Henry, as the English pronounce it, instead of Henri. Of course, such is the oddity of the English (and he has had cause to observe certain aristocrats attending the opera) that Henry could be a surname as well as a given name, and John Henry would be a tolerable enough title to bear, if a little bland.
But such considerations were all Before. Before he chanced to hear an angel singing, on a mad impulse offered to be her teacher and then one thing led to another, led eventually to a kiss that still gives him palpitations to remember, and now, tonight, looking at Christine absorbed in her knitting by the fireside, he knows deep in his heart that he will never change from Erik. For good or ill this is who he is now. And with Christine at his side, it can only ever be good.
A/N: Up next - A Pharoga reunion in Paris.