Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Phantoms so please don't sue me.

Author's Note: Many many thanks to my reviewers…You guys have no idea what reviews me to me. And a special note to Korapersonality: thank you so much for you review! I really appreciated your comments and because of what you wrote, you really inspired Sophia's letter to Erik. And I do realize that it was a little easy for her to find Erik, but I figured if I made it hard, the story would be really dull. I do hope that you continue reading and keep on throwing those reviews at me!

Chapter Two: What Became of the Scorpion?

Erik

A month had passed since she had left. I shook my head as I wandered the burned out Opera house that once had been my realm. Thirty days had slipped through my fingers as I immersed myself in sleep and morphine. Twenty years of work was strewn across my living room floor. Even if I had wanted to start work on another piece I wouldn't have been able to since I had stupidly destroyed my pipe organ. The opera was in such a state that there was nothing of value worth stealing in an attempt to rebuild my home.

Good, faithful, old Nadir had stayed by my side for the past month. Whenever I wished for death, I heard him praying in his native tongue to Allah to have mercy on me. Whether he was praying for my life to be spared or to be finally ended, I don't know. He didn't seem too surprised to find me up and about one day, seemingly recovered from my seizures. He merely accepted my recovery with quiet acceptance just as he had accepted everything that had transpired in the horrid twenty-four hour period of time.

It was Nadir that suggested I inspect what was left of the Opera. Reconstruction had already started though they were nowhere near completion. Most of the burnt and singed wood had been dragged out and scaffolds had been erected. I found I didn't have to be as quiet as before with the sounds of hammers and workman's conversation to cover the sounds of my footsteps. Thankfully, most of my secret passageways had remained untouched.

I soon found myself underneath the floorboards of the manager's office. Both were in that day and discussing the cost of the renovations. Judging from the sounds above my head, Firmen was pacing and Andre was merely sitting at his desk. The rustle of paper made me believe that the post had arrived and the shorter of the two men was sorting through it.

"Andre, how can we afford the renovations? We were already pushing the line with the finances before the…incident. Now, we've lost our biggest patron and our lead singer."

I stifled an ironic laugh. The loss of Chaney and La Carlotta was not as terrible to me as it was to them. But if money was an issue with the renovations, then I could most likely guarantee that my salary of twenty thousand francs would not be paid. Andre gave an uproarious yell that caused both Firmen and myself to jump out of our skins.

"Can you believe this?" he raved. I would have given anything to see him at this moment. Andre was always quick of temper and became flustered at the littlest thing. That was the main reason I sent him the most threatening notes. I enjoyed his reactions.

"What is it, Andre?"

"A letter in the post!" he shouted. "Addressed to the 'Opera Ghost' c/o the Paris Opera House. Don't tell me he's getting fan mail!"

I could hear Firmen sigh. "Perhaps…it could be from Mademoiselle Daee."

"You mean Vicomtess de Chagney."

"Of course," Firmen acquiesced. "You don't think she would correspond with him again do you?"

"Who knows? I had rather grown comfortable with the fact that the Ghost had left us since the chandelier incident."

"Remember, Andre, he had left us alone for three months before he showed himself at the masquerade."

"Will we ever be rid of this menace?"

I laughed softly. No, gentlemen, I fear I will be here for a very long time.

"Well, what should we do with the letter?" Andre asked.

Firmen settled behind his desk. "Throw it away. The last thing he needs is a supporter."

I heard the infamous letter drop into the rubbish. Making my way under the floorboards, I pushed back the board next to the basket. Careful to make sure neither one of the managers saw me, I quickly grabbed the bottom of the basket and lowered it into the hidden passageway with me. Anxiously I drew the top letter out and stared at the handwriting.

My heart fell when I realized that the handwriting was not Christine's. I went to put it back into the rubbish bin when a sudden urge to keep the letter overcame the dark depression that had filled me once more. Against my better judgement, I slipped the letter into my pocket and left the rubbish bin in the passageway.

Nadir was waiting for me when I returned from my "inspection." He didn't look up at me when I entered the disaster stricken living room, most likely because he was trying to piece back together Don Juan Triumphant. I sat down in the black leather wing back chair that had survived the anguished destruction of my home. I pulled out the letter and stared down at the handwriting in curiosity.

"What's that, Erik?"

"It's a letter, Daroga."

Nadir fixed me with an incredulous stare. "I can see it's a letter. Who is it from?"

"I don't know. The post mark is in Italian."

"Do you know anyone in Italy?"

Another wave of sadness came over me. "I did."

"Aren't you going to read it?"

I sighed. "I don't know."

Nadir remained strangely quiet and returned to his painstaking task. I felt so numb inside, that despite the fact that I didn't want to see him piece together my masterpiece, I lacked the words to stop him. It was such a waste of twenty years. Even the name had become bitter in my mind for I was not triumphant. Christine was far from me by now; I did not know where the Vicomte had taken her. Far from France, I was certain of that. Perhaps she was in Italy.

My heart gave a joyful start. Perhaps…her maid wrote this! Yes, that was it! Her maid wrote this so Chaney wouldn't recognize his wife's handwriting. She was writing to me to come save her from the mundane life that her "darling" had forced upon her and was longing for her Angel of Music once more. After all this heartbreak and dark despair, I did reign triumphant! With a sense of smug satisfaction, I ripped open the envelope and began to hungrily read over the words.

Opera Ghost,

Forgive me for being so bold, but I am currently in search of a man by the name of Erik. My father was Giovanni Forchia, a master mason in Rome, Italy. On my father's deathbed, he spoke of an apprentice that he had for only three years, but it was the manner with which he spoke of this boy that caught my attention. There was such an admiration for this boy that fascinated me. Years later, I find myself in need of a capable and trust-worthy contractor. If my father was correct in his appraisal of your abilities, then you had the means to assist me.

I would be lying if I did not speak of my serious misgivings concerning this letter. The idea of a man who drops a chandelier and abducts a lead soprano does not make for a flawless resume. But the manner in which my father spoke of this masked boy by the name of Erik leads me to believe that the newspapers had once again blown an incident out of proportion. Or it may be that you are not the man that I am searching for. If this is indeed the case, then I am terribly sorry for wasting your time..

Sophia Forchia

An intense wave of rage over came me. Standing up, I crushed the letter in my hand and hurled it across the room with an inhuman cry. It wasn't Christine. I wasn't triumphant at all. The letter was just another one of God's cruel tricks on me, showing me in the wake of my defeat that I had made other terrible decisions in my life. I was responsible for the destruction of not one, but two innocent women.

Luciana.

Christine. Who was next to suffer at my hand?

Fury had taken over once more and my eyes searched for something else to destroy but there was nothing left. I had already taken care of properly dismantling my home. Sometimes I hated how thorough I was. My breathing had accelerated and I briefly wondered if another seizer would render me lifeless.

"Erik?"

My eye rested on Nadir. Concern was etched in his face and in that moment I hated him. I hated the fact that he nursed me through an immanent death. I hated him for being my friend and showing me kindness. I hated him for trying to salvage my masterpiece. I screamed a curse and upturned the table where he was putting the manuscript back together. He merely looked at me in pity and I felt the burning sensation of tears once more.

I hated him for being here when it should have been Christine.