A/N: If you have not taken the time to read this story carefully before, I strongly advise you to do it now. There are some really important things going down here. And there are some references to Kay in this one (in fact, I took a few quotes word for word); but if you haven't read her superbly amazing novel, it won't effect your capabilities to understand what's going on.

P.S: Once again, I'd like to thank my loyal readers, especially AntiqueSong…your review was inspiring! It's wonderful to know my Erik was so effective…and reaching 300 reviews? I have no words…well, actually I have a lot. :Points to chapter beneath this sentence:

P.P.S: Well, actually beneath this sentence…I just thought I'd let y'all know that I made this chapter end with what I believe is my cruelest cliffhanger yet…just so you're prepared and everything.

SACRIFICE

François had first seen the man less than a month before. It had been a cloudy, dismal day, that he remembered distinctly. The weather had been unusually cold for that time of year, with overcast skies and strong, unruly winds that whipped the long black cape draped upon the man's broad, lean shoulders.

At first, François had been unaware of another presence in his midst. The man had appeared from out of the fog with such disquieting abruptness that for a moment, François thought he was a ghost, an apparition. The exclusively black apparel had not diminished this first impression…nor had the pale white mask that covered half of the man's face…

With a dramatically unhurried pace, the man approached him, his eyes, hidden within the shadows, burning holes into François's body. François took an involuntary step backwards, grasping the dented bronze rail of the buggy behind him with a large, hair-covered hand.

"You provide transportation for those without a means of travel, do you not?" the man inquired, his voice low and hauntingly melodious. François stared at him, brow furrowed.

"…For a fee, yes," he said after a hesitant pause. Without another word, the man swept his cloak around him in a fluttering flurry of black velvet and disappeared around the side of the carriage. The buggy rocked back and forth slightly as he sat down inside. François blinked, then quickly climbed the mount leading to the front seat and took his place atop the carriage. "Where are you going, Monsieur?" he asked through the small window behind him.

"The countryside" was the curt response. François snapped the reigns and the horse took off. The man told him the directions, usually in two words or less, simply signaling which direction to take. "Left…straight ahead…left again…" The enclosed perimeters of the city began to expand, the houses growing smaller and father apart as they continued up the side of the hill. The wind began to intensify, and François pulled his brown scarf closer to his uncovered neck. He took a quick glance behind him, only to find the stranger sitting, silent and unmoving, staring out the window with those eerie, focused eyes.

"Where are you headed, Monsieur?" François questioned, his eyes locked on the road in front of him. The man said nothing, and after a moment, François assumed he would get no reply. 'He must have many thoughts floating around in his head…many secrets…' he pondered.

"Home."

François turned his head slightly. "Pardon?"

The man met his eyes directly, and François felt a chill run up his spine. "Home." He broke the stare, turning his gaze to the window once again . "I'm going home."

They did not speak until they reached their destination.

Just as François began to wonder if this man had any idea as to where he was headed, he was met with the sight of an old Victorian mansion lining the horizon. It sat dauntingly upon the hill, overlooking the city, a long, stone stairwell leading up to the front door.

"We are here," the man said.

François stopped the buggy, pulling off to the side of the road next to the gate. The stranger stepped out quickly, silently, and closed the door of the carriage. He turned to François and handed him a few coins. François looked into his palm and was shocked to find at least double…no, triple the cost he was due. Glancing at the man, François quickly shoved the money into his pocket and was about to leave when he felt the strong grip of fingers on his arm. François looked up at the man, eyes wide. Mutely, the man pressed two more coins into his hand.

"For your silence," he murmured.

He took out a small sack and laid it gently in François's grasp. "…And for your return, every day, at five o'clock. You will take me to the Opera House, and you will mention it to no one." François nodded wordlessly, staring at the man in amazement. "Good."

Then he was gone.

On his return to town, François pulled the buggy down a small, damp alleyway. Jumping down off the carriage, he stepped through a small door off to the side of the street. "I hadn't expected to see you back so early, François," a voice rasped from the corner. A man stepped out of the shadows, his shaggy brown hair, plump gut, and bump of a nose mirroring François's own appearance. After a moment of hesitant stillness, the man spread his arms out in front of him. "What are you doing back here already?" he growled accusingly.

François smirked lightly. "You worry too much, brother." He pulled out the bag from the pocket of his long, tatty trench coat and threw it onto the table. The seal broke open, and hundreds of coins were thrown, scattered, across the hard wooden surface.

"François…this will pay for everything…all our debts, all our payoff's, gone…" Pierre whispered, looking up at his brother from beneath his thick, caterpillar-like eyebrows, the glimmer of the gold reflected in his beetle black eyes. "Where did you...?"

Taking a coin from off the table and spinning it in and out of his fingers, François's grin deepened. "It's quite an interesting story, Pierre..."


He had never been close enough to see the fine engravings on the door. In fact, he had never even touched the gate or ascended those treacherous-looking stairs, either. François turned to the group of fourteen men behind him. Each had an equally menacing expression on their faces, and in each pair of hands, a gun. Looking between the faces in the crowd, François turned to Pierre. As the older brother, he still felt a burst of responsibility over him, even in their adult age. "Do you remember what I told you?" François muttered to them hurriedly. "The police want him dead or alive. Apparently, this man is dangerous. Otherwise they would not be offering such a high reward on head."

"And you're sure this is the man?" piped up one of the men towards the back of the group.

François turned to him sharply. "Jacques, how many men do you think run around Lyons wearing 'a white mask that covers his right cheek?' It was the exact description. I even saw the mask in the captain of the guard's bloody hand!" he hissed. "I told you, I drove this man to and from the city for almost a month. Trust me…" he murmured, his voice dropping slightly, eyes narrowed. "This is him." He looked around at his men slowly, his gaze falling upon his younger sibling. "Are you ready?" he whispered.

Pierre glanced up at the door, a glistening bullet of sweat making its way down his brow, before nodding to his brother, a look of resolute determination on his face. François clapped him on the back with one wide, callused hand, then turned and faced the cold, gray wood of the house. He took a deep breath and hammered at the door with his fist.


For a moment, no one said a word. They stared at each other wordlessly until Madame Giry broke the silence.

"I'll get it."

She strode towards the door, her small wrinkled hand outstretched, fingers grazing the cold metal of the knob, when Erik took hold of her arm. "They're here for me," he whispered. "I'll get it." He looked over at Christine, who was sitting up in bed, mouth agape, eyes wide. "Take her, get her out of here. Get my pistol; it's on the fireplace mantel in my study," he murmured under his breath. "Use the backdoor, go around front, and take their carriage while they're…preoccupied."

"No!" Christine cried, sliding off the bed gracelessly. Erik hurried over to her and caught her under the arms. She whirled around, grasping him by the forearms, and pulled his face to hers. Their lips met, hard and frantic, before Erik broke away. Christine held his collar in her tiny fists, eyes wild and glassy. "Don't you dare do this to me again," she hissed to him. She turned to Madame Giry, desperately seeking an ally in her anxiety. "We still have time! We…we could all sneak out back, they'll think no one's home…"

The deafening crash of a door being broken echoed through the house. Erik's eyes were locked on her face, his hand clutching hers. Madame Giry took Christine by the arms, her hands closing around Christine's wrists. "Christine…" she murmured, looking directly into her eyes. "There is no time." They heard the heavy footsteps of at least a dozen men traipsing through the halls downstairs, commanding shouts causing the walls to rattle. Erik continued to stare at Christine, his expression unreadable. "Erik…" Madame Giry muttered. "They're coming closer…" The violent thuds grew louder, as did the voices beneath them.

And then, Erik's paralysis broke. He strode towards Christine, a burning quickness in his step, and took her in his arms. Leaning down, he kissed her as he had never kissed her before. Something passed between them, something indescribable and deep. Their eyes both closed at the profound magnitude, and Erik trailed his lips to her ear.

"Thank you, Christine…" he breathed, his voice so hushed she could barely hear it. She felt a single tear fall soak through her gown and touch her shoulder. "You let my song take flight."

In a swirl of his cape, he disappeared out the door.


As far back as he could remember, the dark had always been one of the only entities of comfort for him. There had not been a time when he could recall fearing the shadows that danced eerily across the walls or encompassed him in their dark splendor. But as he crept silently along the corridor, his eyes flashing with some unseen, internal light, Erik was hit with a memory that he had forgotten…or chosen to keep concealed within the corners of his mind.

"Mama…"

He shuddered at the sound of the thin, bittersweet sound of the child's voice. It took him a few moments to realize it was his own, an echo of a reminiscence that had long since faded… Erik listened to himself as a child of no more than…how old had he been when he was met with that sickening realization? Four? Five? Yes, five…it had been his birthday. It had been before that heavy, inescapable feeling of difference had settled down within him. The mask had always been there, it had always covered his face.

And for the first time on that day, he had asked why… He had defied tradition and removed it.

"You want to know why? Then you shall know…by God, you shall know! Look at yourself!"

This voice he remembered quite distinctly…it brought up so many twisted, raw sentiments within him, a paradox of emotion boiling in his thoughts. Pain…terror…disgrace…complete and absolute hatred…and the strangest of them all, love.

Mother…

"Look at yourself in the mirror and see why you must wear a mask. Look!"

At his young age, he had not understood. He had not grasped the reality that was, quite literally, staring him in the face. This mirror, this reflective piece of glass…to young Erik, it had been hiding a monster in its depths. A horrid, deformed, hideous beast who wanted nothing more than to gobble him up, devour him, send him to the pits of whatever hell lurked within it. And he was afraid.

Desperately afraid.

…But he had not understood.

Perhaps it was a fleeting, unusually merciful gift of ignorance that had been so ephemerally bestowed upon him. For in those moments of innocence, Erik had feared something that did not exist… Soon later, however, the irrational fear would evaporate, being replaced by something dark and ugly…a self-loathing from which he would never truly escape.

And in the darkness, young Erik had been sure the face would come for him…in the darkness…

Erik slid his hand down the cool wood of the banister, feeling its smooth polished perfection beneath his fingertips. He was gripped with an unfounded hatred for that sublime flawlessness… just before he was gripped by rough hands, clutching him by the arms.

"François!" a low voice shouted gruffly, the tone wavering with excitement. "He's here, François!"

He felt himself being dragged down the remaining stairs below him, but Erik did not resist…perhaps they would leave after they got what they came for and not search the rest of the house…

Erik's lack of a struggle sent suspicious murmurs through the crowd of men forming at the base of the staircase. His face was covered in the shadows he loved so dearly, and a sigh flew past his lips in gratitude that these…thieves had not seen his right cheek.

Thank God for small miracles.

"Dead or alive, right, François?" muttered a different voice from behind him.

Erik looked up to see a large bulking mass of a man approaching him…he remembered him vaguely as the carriage driver who drove him to the Opera House everyday… Erik closed his eyes in frustration. It had been a slip-up, hiring the same buggy for a routine. How could he have suspected no one would become suspicious of a man in a porcelain mask?…a mask that had been left at the scene of what no doubt had been labeled murder by now…

"The infamous Phantom de la Opera, I presume?" the man said, leering, his smirk maddeningly cruel. Erik turned his face slightly to the right, the darkness casting a veil farther onto his cheek. He felt the coarse touch of fingers to his chin, and his face was lifted upward into the dim light of morning…

A horrified stillness overtook the horde of men. After a moment of merciless, unwavering stares, François broke the silence. "Shoot him. Now," he murmured. A chill shot up Erik's spine as the tip of a pistol was placed at the base of his throat. He looked into the eyes of the man holding the gun, a man who looked surprisingly similar to the carriage driver… There was a nervous glassiness to his eyes, amplified to the power of ten when Erik met his gaze. The pressure of the barrel against his skin increased slightly.

The gunshot pealed through the room, and somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the six o'clock hour.