Hello all,

Thank you for taking the time to read this first chapter.

Not to give you my life story, but this is strangely a Fic I began publishing on this website a very long time ago, although the original premise and characterisation has changed dramatically. I was quite a bit younger then, and while it got a hundreds of reviews, upon reading it back, it left a lot to be desired, and more importantly, I never finished it.

I've kept coming back to it over the years and found thinking about the situations of these characters and imagining scenes between them was a rather comforting and good way of getting me to sleep at night, particularly while I've been in isolation during the Coronavirus pandemic (Some themes in the story may be a little too close to the bone here). I feel I've regressed quite a lot into my teenage years and, luckily/unluckily for you, the result is that I really want to publish some fanfiction.

It's a mixture of a lot of literature that I love; Phantom, obviously, but there are also notes of Beauty and the Beast meets 1984. I've recently re-read Shadow Government by Quiet2885, which is amazing and I highly recommend, and the similarities are there too.

Anyway, that's enough from me. Enjoy the journey.

They who should love me, Walk right through me, I am a ghost, And as far as I know I haven't even died.

It was a dark night when Paris fell. He remembered it was quiet; quieter than he had ever known it, not even a breath before the storm.

And then the marching began.

First the virus had stripped the city of its women and most of the children. Then it poisoned the minds of the men who remained; these broken men who had their wives and families ripped from them too soon. So, they listened to hatred and sweet promises, and with torches flaming and their weapons raised (chair legs, axes, spades, driftwood), they marched up the Champs-Élysées crying out for violence. Their blood whipped up, ready to spill it on the pure white limestone.

When the soldiers tried to protect the Presidential palace, they were thrown down and beaten, their heads hacked from their bodies. Would they still have stood their ground if they knew the man they tried to protect had already fled, never to return to native soil?

He remembered seeing the crowd part and Charles Stratera, mastermind of it all, step forward, climb the steps to the doorway and announce the end of terror. He called out for freedom, justice and peace. Begged them to save themselves from the tyranny of their past oppressors, who had done nothing to keep them safe, and tear the whole God-damn place down.

Erik watched it all happen from the shadows. Watched them rig the explosives, with little care for the people inside and bring down every symbol of the last regime. Many beautiful buildings perished that night. Many lives were lost in the new world they created.

To an angry mob, Democracy was just a word. Autocracy was just a word too. Charles Stratera would be their new ruler and France would recover. The virus would be stopped. Women and children would return.

He often thought back to that night whenever he stared over the city and saw it as it had once been through the eyes of his 5-year-old self. He grieved for the former opulence and beauty of Paris, now completely changed into grey concrete blocks, starved and humble. The old buildings, full of life and history, had been pulled down were replaced just as quickly, without any care for character or substance. The streets remained deserted and in disarray.

Stratera had lied. France had not recovered; it had merely continued. The virus had been inoculated, but the women and children had not returned, neither had the wealth, nor the freedom. Stratera knew better than most what a new ruler must do; he took complete control. Once instated in a new palace, he ruled with an iron fist. All people who had been linked to the former regime disappeared. Some fled, most were murdered. The life the people of France had once known was gone; it had been scorched and the ground salted. Now all they knew was 24 hour surveillance. If anyone even spoke the word "change" their life would be forfeit.

After music, arts and literature had been banned by the new regime, the old Opera Populaire had fallen into ruins, but in its decaying shell, Erik had built something truly amazing. A maze of torture chambers, cells and interrogation rooms. Only he knew the full extent of its tunnels and could find his way around without the need of a map. It was one of his favourite past times to watch the prisoners "escape"; the way their eyes would light up with hope as they headed this way and then that. He'd watch it diminish as they went on and on, a rat in a maze, until they realised that there was of course no escape. Then they gave up their secrets more willingly than if an enforcer had exhausted themselves beating it out of them. Once they entered, no ever did come back out again. That was why it was called 'The House of Ghosts'. It was one of the few things Erik had done that ever brought a smile to Stratera's face.

And inside The House he now stood, looking over the city; one of the most powerful and dangerous men in Stratera's government. Erik had spent fifteen years learning that despite the power and freedom the role afforded him, it came with its own problems – nearly all of Stratera's officials looked at him with envy. Not a man amongst them didn't desire his removal, so that they could take his place as right-hand man to France's all powerful ruler. Erik therefore made sure he was as hidden as possible from them. He did not have a hand in day to day governance of the country, neither did he attend public functions. He did not flaunt his position, as so many others did. And luckily for him, as the architect of the Secret Service and its haunted headquarters, it was fairly easy to make sure that any threat could be dealt with before it came to fruition, regardless of whether or not it was a credible one.

He was broken from his train of thought by Firmin, his secretary.

"Sir?"

Erik turned in his direction, a black mass silhouetted in the bright window. He turned his head towards the intruder to show he was aware of him, but said nothing, and waited.

"Agent 23 is asking for you. They are having some trouble with…"

Erik sighed. Must he do everything himself?

He made his way through the maze of tunnels and corridors, almost sleepwalking he knew the building so well. When he arrived outside the cell, he saw the agent in question hovering nearby. His hands were bloodied.

Agent 23 was a brawny man by the name of Frederic. Erik had been displeased with his work on multiple occasions; he was quick to anger and his eyes were full of spite. "The bastard won't talk," he spat, pacing up and down like a caged tiger. It was clear this man had no care for his work, nor patience.

Erik looked in through the bars to the quivering mess inside. Blood was splattered nearly everywhere, and the man's clothes were torn and splashed with red.

"What have I told you?" Erik asked turning back to Frederic with a dangerous voice, "There is no need for this when we have so many other resources available." He indicated to Frederic's head and then his hands. "Use this. Not these."

Erik didn't give him time for a rebuttal before he pushed past him to enter the cell, locking the door behind him.

The prisoner looked through his shaking fingers to see the dark spectre approach him. He cried out and buried his head back down.

Erik waited patiently for the man to stop blubbering enough to be able to speak.

"You recognise me?"

"Yes," the man whispered in horror.

"Yes," he repeated with macabre pleasure, "Then you've heard the stories. You know what happens in this place. And you know why you are being held here," he said softly, his voice as calm as a garden pond.

The man shook his head.

"I've nothing to do with anything," he cried out. "Innocent!"

Erik smiled, "then why did we find these in your rooms?"

He produced the pages and pages of code he had been pouring over in his office. He'd spent a good time deciphering them, this resistance group were getting better and better at hiding their messages from him, but he broke them in the end. He always did.

He didn't wait for the man to deny it, he already knew he was lying. "Quite the plans you've been brewing. Assassination of Le Dirigeant, aided it seems by foreign diplomats. Give me their names and we will make this easier for you."

The man sat up and spat at him. Erik just allowed his smile to grow wider.

"I'm not saying a word!"

Erik saw his eyes then, determination pouring out of them, and knew it would take more a good deal of psychological torture to make this man talk. Alas, he didn't have the time.

He took a deep breath, adjusted his posture and began to sing, but very softly.

The man recoiled like a snake, his eyes went glassy and his mouth slack. Limp and malleable. He instantly calmed, as quiet as a baby, as the melody Erik concocted swept over him.

Erik sang for a few more seconds and then softly asked him again.

"Who were the foreign agents you spoke to?"

The man, hypnotised, answered, "MI6. Codename was Goldfinch. He never told me anything else."

"And your codename?" Erik questioned.

"Kingfisher," he whispered, still entranced, "we were to meet outside the city, near Argenteuil."

Erik already knew the date and time of the meeting from the code. Now he had the place.

"Good." Erik turned back to the door and the man grasped after him, breaking him from his reverie.

"Please," he begged of him, "Please don't kill me."

Erik turned his death head back in his direction and slowly began to undo the strings of the mask.

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you..." he whispered with satisfaction.

The screaming would last for hours. As he left the room and turned back to a waiting Frederic, he upbraided him.

"Maybe I will give you a face like this and you can be better at your job?" he growled, "He's given us what we need. Take him down to the catacombs."

Frederic, scared as a child, did as he was told without argument.

Erik turned to see Firmin was still waiting diligently for him.

"Le Dirigeant has asked for you," Firmin continued.

"Why?" Erik asked brusquely.

Firmin retracted a little, "He did not say, Sir. Just to come at once."

"Hm," Erik said in response, looking back though the bars at the bloodied cell. He hated mess. "He said nothing else?"

Firmin shook his head.

"Fetch my car."

After this barked order, Firmin hurried away, closing the door behind him.

Erik closed his eyes, his mind clear and focused, as he tried to guess at Stratera's reasons for summoning him; the new developments at Calais perhaps?

When he descended to his car, he greeted his driver gruffly.

"Nadir. To the Invalides."

Nadir nodded, not trying to hide his concern.

"Do not worry, my friend," Erik said calmly, perhaps trying to convince himself in the process. "It will be nothing to worry about."

"It is just…he has been more demanding of late," Nadir said carefully.

"He is paranoid. And with good reason…"

It was all Erik gave him in response. The situation in France was febrile. All Stratera ever seemed to see was problems; if it was not attacks from inside the country, they were from outside. He seethed with hate at all the other nations who prospered and laughed at those that didn't, and everywhere his eyes roamed in his own land, he saw descension.

"He trusts you," Nadir said with certainty, almost to himself.

"Of course he does. If he falls, so do I."

It was a short, tense drive. When they reached the complex of buildings, Erik ordered Nadir to stay ready, as it would no doubt be short visit. The older man nodded jerkily, clearly not happy. Erik took comfort in the trust he placed in this man and vice versa. He had never doubted him before and expected that he never would.

He took one of the more covert entrances into the building, slipping past Stratera's guards. After the uprising, he had taken over the former museum and buildings, returning it to the former glory it would have been when first built.

It was what France and the people deserved, he'd said.

He called it his Palace of Warfare. It was there to honour the soldiers of France, and every man who had destroyed the former regime had proved himself a soldier. They should be commended as such, although the only man who got to enjoy it was Stratera himself…

When he reached the door to Stratera's office, the guards stationed outside looked at each other warily.

"He is expecting me," Erik told them silkily.

He could see the man on the left was particularly afraid of him. He was shaking slightly. He must have heard the stories.

Once inside, and the door was closed, Erik approached the older man behind the desk.

"Father," he greeted him, careful to keep his tone even.

Stratera was sitting at this large mahogany desk, a glass of whiskey in one hand, as he looked out of the window with consternation onto the Dôme. His hair looked a little more silver than the last time he had seen him.

"Erik," the old man turned his head in his direction. "You took your time."

Barely seconds into the conversation and the first criticism was already launched.

"I had business to attend to at the House," Erik explained. He could instantly tell by Stratera's disposition that this wasn't about a reprimand or a problem. No…he wanted something…

"Do you know what day it is today?" Stratera asked cryptically.

"February 24th," he replied, a frown forming underneath the mask.

"I adopted you on this day," he said, his mind far away on something else. "Twenty-six years ago."

"It has…" Erik began, unsure of just where Stratera was going with this, "…been a long time."

"Yes, I've watched you grow up into a man," he said. Man. Erik could tell that the word tasted wrong in Stratera's mouth.

"As a present, for this occasion," Stratera continued, a nasty smile creeping onto his face, "I have a gift for you."

Erik braced himself.

"A wife," Stratera finished, taking a long sip of the spirit in his hand and giving him a particularly challenging look. Erik reminded himself to keep his temper in check.

"You know I have never been interested in your meat markets," Erik said scornfully.

"Yes, one wonders why?" Stratera said, and then with a sneer, "People have begun to talk."

"Who are these "people"?" Erik fired back with a shrug, "You think I care about their opinions? Why are they so interested in my affairs?"

Stratera didn't answer, just fixed him with a smug look that said 'I'm going to win this argument'. Erik felt his blood boil at his father's quiet complacency. It had been a long time since the man had given him a direct order. It was if he had been saving up for it.

"I have no interest in human companionship," Erik continued, "I wish to be left alone."

"I have been patient with you, Erik," Stratera continued, a cruel half-smile on his face, "I have waited for you to show some sense of responsibility. I am an old man. You are my only son. One day I will be dead, and what will I have to show for it? My legacy and name will be gone. I want this family to continue so you must have an heir. Give me one."

Erik felt his words bite him. He should have been used to the snipes and the criticism by now, after more than 25 years of calling this man "Father". This man who had acknowledged, on multiple occasions, that Erik's adoption had been nothing more than a publicity stunt. Stratera must be seen as Father to the nation and so, of course, he adopted this orphaned, disfigured wretch. Brought him up as his own, gave him his name and titles and used him for what he was good at - terrifying and controlling the masses.

"Adopt another child then," Erik bit back, "If I am not enough."

Stratera barked with cruel laughter at the suggestion.

"Or, if you want your child so badly, marry the girl yourself! I want nothing to do with it."

"You think I have the time to fool around with girls? To sire a child? And how will it look, hm?" Stratera muttered angrily.

How will it look? How will it look? All that mattered to him was impressions.

"And you think I have time to play husband?" Erik seethed back at him. "I don't want any of this. I -"

But Stratera steamrolled him, his anger growing by the second, "And what will they say when a man who has always claimed utmost devotion to his country and only his country, is married to a woman a quarter of my age? My enemies already have enough accusations to throw at me without adding that to the list!"

Yes, accusations were flying like sparks all the time. Quicker than Stratera could put them out -

Erik bit his lip suddenly as the realisation came to him – why it must be him. He almost laughed.

"You can't, can you?" Erik said with a hiss of satisfaction.

Stratera eyed him with such a look of venom, Erik knew instantly he was right.

"The irony," Erik clucked, "The most powerful man in France is as impotent as a –"

"Not another word!" Stratera warned him coldly. His voice crackling with hate.

Erik knew better than to push him. His father was a vindictive, vengeful man. And although Erik was too useful to be expendable, he knew Stratera wouldn't hesitate to remove what small joys he found in life.

It didn't mean he would give up trying to persuade him.

"Yes, you're right. It would not be welcomed publicly," Erik continued silkily, as if the last part of the conversation hadn't happened. "Still, drawing attention to myself in this way would not be beneficial either."

Stratera shrugged off his remarks and returned to his unassailable self, although the look of detestation he gave Erik certainly had more loathing in it than before.

"It needn't be public record. I'm not asking you to be more overt than usual. It is high time you were married," he said forcefully, "This is a great honour I am giving you."

Erik clenched his hands behind his back and said nothing. Stratera sighed, full of self-pity.

"You've so often been a disappointment to me, Erik," Stratera said coldly, "Don't be so today."

Erik gritted his teeth, accepting that the outcome of the conversation would be inevitable. He would be married, regardless of whatever rational arguments he made.

"It's useless trying to dissuade you. I know that," Erik began, "Regardless of whether I am ready to invite a complete stranger into my house-" but he was promptly cut off by his father:

"You're ready when I say you're ready."

Erik sighed defeatedly.

"Where is she, then?" He asked impatiently. "Just where have you stolen her from? I trust she has been properly vetted?"

Stratera eyed him with distaste at the suggestion. It was a nice little racket the older man had going for himself, if you ignore the fact it was entirely against all human rights and social practices. With the virus having decimated the female and younger population, the men had become a little…wild.

Partners were few and far between, not just in France but all over the world. They had become a commodity. But while other countries populations had begun to recover as they protected the females, Stratera's regime had hunted them down, sold them off to the highest bidder, and when numbers dwindled so badly, had looked to other countries to solve the problem. He now ran one of the largest human trafficking operations in the world, with all the profits going directly to him. Erik found very few things in life deplorable, but his father truly was a shining example of the worst humanity had to offer.

"That is the best bit," Stratera said, almost gleefully, "I found her right here. In Paris. Hidden in the sewers."

Erik cringed at the idea.

"Don't worry," Stratera began rising from his chair. "She's been made presentable."

"Been?" Erik asked, a feeling of dread creeping into his chest.

"Yes," Stratera said, "No time like the present, eh?"

Erik felt his heart jump into his throat. He was going to be married. In the next few moments.

"I haven't even – " Erik began, his eyes flashing with anger.

"Nonsense," Stratera interrupted him, anticipating his rebuke, "You'll have all the time in the world for that once you've wed her…besides, she is the prettiest I've seen in a while. It is now or never, someone else will be sure to carry her off!"

Stratera then heavily clapped him on the back, "Don't say I don't treat you well. Come. She's in the Dôme."

Erik remembered the first time he had stepped foot in the Dôme, it had been shortly after the attack on the palace, when everything of value had been looted. The place had lost whatever magic it had once held for him, and it still felt that way to him when he entered.

The huge red marble tomb of Napoleon was gone, leaving an empty crater in its centre. He remembered, as a young boy, asking why the emperor's body was being removed and thrown in the Seine by Stratera's men. Stratera had answered that it was what Napoleon had originally wanted. He did not want his body to be worshipped. But after he died, the King had disrespected his wishes and built him this tomb. Such a monument to a man was gaudy and opulent. And besides, when he died, he would need a fitting resting place.

As they moved further in the building, he heard and saw five figures. He saw her back first. Ram rod straight, but her golden head was turned downwards. As he came closer, he could see how brittle she was. A long, pale blue dress hung off her frame, and as he rounded towards her, he saw sunken cheeks. She may have hidden herself well, but she had suffered for it.

A little further back from her, Nadir was waiting, two guards on either side of him, a concerned look on his face. Erik could see he was fighting very hard to not ask what on earth was going on. He gave him a look of warning, and then threw his voice so it would softly resound in his ear.

"It is all Stratera's doing. I knew nothing," he explained quietly. Then he saw Nadir's face crumple in pity, directed at him now, rather than the girl, which only made him feel more wretched.

Erik suddenly stopped, turning back to Nadir, unsure he could do this. He almost considered running but as he saw the steel faces of the guards, he knew the repercussions for Nadir would be severe. His insides ran cold as Stratera grasped his arm once more in warning and when Erik looked back, he was met by the patient face of a priest, floating towards him.

"The groom, I presume?" the man said, smiling benevolently. He said the word as if he was so pleased with himself, Erik had the sudden urge to tear his face off.

"Yes," Stratera confirmed, jostling Erik along.

"You will please follow me."

The priest led both the bride and groom, and Stratera and Nadir, into the Cathedral of Saint Louis. The guards remained stationed at the door. When they arrived at the altar, and the priest began to speak, Erik tuned him out. He looked up into the ceiling, almost seeing the way sound reverberated around the building. The acoustics would be perfect. He imagined the Kyrie from Mozart's Mass in C minor ringing off the walls, like a caged bird. It was no longer possible of course, the organ had been ripped out years ago. Silence and reverence reigned here now. Music was distraction and torment. But not to him...In his mind, he let the imagined music consume him, not looking at the person to his left, or at the priest. Until, he was jerked back by Stratera's fingers digging into his shoulder.

"My son?" The priest called to him. He had missed his cue. "Repeat after me…"

I am no one's son. Not after this.

"I, Erik, take you, Christine, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part."

Christine…

Only now when he was wed to her, did he know her name.

He repeated the words, as if he were a puppet. When it was her turn, Erik was rather impressed with how stoically she took it all - being married to a beast. Not a tear was shed, nor a cry of terror as the priest pronounced them man and wife.

Yes, her "I do" was soft and timid, but she did not fall to her knees and ask the Almighty to carry her away. And when it was all over, Erik marvelled at the idea that he now owned someone, was responsible for them, it was, in fact, his duty to care for her. He wondered if he was capable of it. Half the things he had just promised to do were baffling to him.

He noticed that her eyes never swung in her direction, instead she just stood like the statue of a grieving angel. He wondered how much time she'd been given to process all of these events. No doubt longer than him, he thought with a tinge of jealousy.

Erik found himself briefly wondering if there should not be paperwork to fill out. But of course, Stratera would only argue what more legality was necessary than the eyes of God? His father was blissful when it was over. He grabbed Erik by the shoulders and recommended he forget work for the day.

"Take your new bride home, Erik," he commanded, with an unsubtle rise of his eyebrows.

Erik looked down at the girl, still silent with melancholy. He took a deep breath, finding it as difficult to look at her as she did him. She looked almost skeletal. Rather fitting then that she should marry a man with a death's head.

"Let us go."

She followed obediently. As did Nadir, who rushed ahead to get the car door for her, which was lucky as Erik observed she seemed rather wary of it.

"Please, Madame," Nadir prompted her, motioning to the backseat. "I am Nadir. I am Erik's butler. I am here to help you."

She heard everything he said but gave no recognition of him understanding it, until she gently got into the back seat. Erik hesitated, before getting in beside her. Unconsciously he pressed himself as close to the door as possible, increasing the distance between him. This was shameful, he thought, to be scared of a girl weighing no more than a leaf.

It was an unbearably long, silent drive back to Erik's… their… home.

He leant his head heavily against his fist. Perhaps subconsciously trying to cover his face. What must she think of him? Did she think at all? He'd had very little evidence to suggest she was fully cognisant of what was happening. He had never really considered what he wanted in a wife, but living, talking and thinking would have been qualities high on the agenda.

As they arrived back at his townhouse in Grenelle, Erik stormed ahead, leaving Nadir to help his new wife inside. She followed after him like a beaten dog. Marie was waiting in the hallway. She must have heard the car pulling up at the unusual hour. Her eyes widened as she saw the young girl.

Christine became more visibly tense as she entered the house, so Erik tried to make his voice as calm and silky as possible, but even he could hear the tremor in it.

"Christine, this is Marie Giry. My housekeeper," Erik explained. "Marie, this is Christine…your new Mistress."

Marie stepped forward, as unflappable as ever, her eyes sizing her up, "Madame. I am at your service."

Silence followed as Erik watched her. He was struck again by how thin she was.

"Marie," Erik called her, "Take Christine downstairs. Give her some food. Then perhaps show her to her room?"

"Her room?" Marie parroted back, eyes flashing. There had been no warning and nothing planned.

"Yes," Erik continued, "One of the guest bedrooms. Make it ready for her. Then she can rest. I have business back at the House to attend to."

Both Marie and Nadir looked at him with disapproval. He felt his anger begin to seep into his voice.

"I will be back later."

He turned back out of the house quickly towards the car. The daylight suddenly felt too much for him. He wanted dark solitude and to forget this whole morning had occurred.

"What are you doing?" Nadir hissed quietly once they were both outside.

"She obviously needs time to acclimatise," Erik said with a warning tone, "She's practically catatonic."

"You should be here then," Nadir argued back.

"I need to process this too, Nadir," Erik countered. "I will only be a terror to her like this."

"You're running away!"

Erik rounded on him, grabbing him by the lapels, furious. "I am NOT running away!"

Nadir instantly faltered. Erik hadn't snapped at him like that in years.

"I am the master of this house, am I not?" he seethed, letting the older man go and feeling some guilt prick him as he stumbled. "Get in the car."

Once he was back at the House, he found he could think clearer. Breathe easier.

His work remained untouched however as he considered all the things that would now happen, the consequences of his father's decision and second guessing necessary in order to predict the actions of those around him.

He wasn't worried about Marie or Nadir. They could be trusted. But he was beginning to think that his father's decision to marry him off had just been another attempt to torture him. Stratera should have given him an ugly hag of a wife, too old to breed with, rather than this beautiful, young one who could not be spoken to without her loathing him.

And they would hate him, the men of Parlement, when they saw what a pretty new wife he had been given. They'd be foaming at the mouth with jealously. And of course, now they were married, Stratera would insist they attend his events, make sure to show her off so they could all covet what he had, as if they didn't already. Perhaps Stratera was goading them to kill him. He'd tried it before.

He tried to look at his work again rather than worry at their reactions. The words floated together in order once more and he felt his anger dissipate as he steeled himself. He would need to prepare himself for these men and ready his defences for when the first dagger was drawn. His mind drifted back to the house in Grenelle, and he thought of the bomb that now resided in a sparsely decorated bedroom, no doubt burying her face into a pillow and hoping to wake up from this dream.