Summary: Time has a way of changing the most harsh of emotions. Trapped in a curse to repeat his destiny, is this Erik's second chance with the woman he loves, or will history repeat itself? Modern/ AU.

Dear Reader,

So this story has been spinning in my head for months, and I finally decided to try it out! It is a mix ofLeroux, Kay, and don't laugh, Robert Englund's version of POTO.

It isAU, a modern fic, and though it doesn't seem like it in the first chapter- it willcome togethereventually. Be warned- this is not a happy story- lots of angst, and probally not a happy ending.

I believe Christine and Erik are meant to have a tragic affair that spans to the supernatural- The whole jest of this story is to investigate fate, and faith- andwhat ifhistory can repeat itself.

For those of you wondering- my phantom is Gerard-ish . . .

Well- on with the story! Enjoy!

Many Blessings,

Queenie

From the Memoirs of Vicomtess Christine de Chagny

Uppsala-

The Coast of Scandinavia, 1873

Raoul has tried to keep me to my rooms, but the sea (as it always does) calls to me. In the salty wind and bare feet of my youth I once ran along these shores with my father. His violin in one hand, and my small boots in the other- discarded by my frantic need to run into the rising tide.

But the past is dead.

The babe that grows in my belly does not let me sleep- leaving me to walk the corridors of the manor every night. I know I should rest- but I find myself restless with needle point and reading.

Sometimes I find myself grasping for breathe from the weight of this life growing in me. The local doctor protests my activity, urging me to bed rest, but I can not bare it.

I can see the worry in my Love's eyes. He needn't waste his thoughts-

I do not fear my providence, one so tangled with death already. I have chosen my fate with tears and blood. I do not regret it.

How can I when Raoul's eyes look into mine, when I feel the kick of my child.

God will have his blessings or curses upon my soul. I have sinned greatly against another- just as he wallows in blood so shall I walk in ambiguity. His plight I have carried far to this coast to keep me company on sleepless nights.

If he is cursed, so I will my soul be intertwined in flames.

The young Vicomte paced the corridor outside of his wife's chambers. His hands fooling idly with a cigarette that would never be lit, he slouched into the chair adjacent to her door.

The room was once filled with cries of pain, and commands of the midwife, but in the last few minutes silence covered the corridor with a chilling atmosphere that matched the frigid weather outside.

The Vicomte stood immediately as the door was opened and the doctor emerged somberly. The elderly man looked at Raoul with an intense calm. Raoul lowered his eyes to the blood stained apron the doctor had covering his suit- and the deep red clothe the older gentleman wiped his hands with.

The elder man cleared his throat.

"She tried her best, Sir." It was barely a whisper.

The comment tainted the air like a bad smell.

As Raoul approached the doorway the doctor put on hand on the young man's shoulder.

"I am truly sorry."

In Christine's room the embers still glowed in the fireplace. A midwife scurried past as she carried red water in a basin to be disposed of.

His wife's blood.

Her form was laid out on the canopy bed, curls splattered against the white sheets. Still in the linen nightshift he had kissed her good-night in, the ends were now gathered at her hips, crumpled and wet with her perspiration.

Bending over her lifeless body, still with the drops of sweat from labor covering her face and neck, the young husband smoothed a curl from her face.

So cold.

Her eyes, comatose, still held the expression of pain. His fingers gently closed him with a sigh of grief.

Oh, my Love.

Not able to stand the sight any longer, he turned to leave.

"Sir."

Raoul turned to see the midwife holding a small bundle in her arms.

"Your son."

With a cry of grief, the Vicomte clinched his hands as he took the child. So this was the being that stole his mother's life. Tiny hands, feet, purplish skin and sandy blond hair already emerging atop the infants head- Raoul stroked the babe's check with his thumb.

Oh Christine, if you could only see the fruit of your labor.

"Thomas." He uttered. He could not spend another second in the presence of his dead wife, his little rat of a son. The anger and bitterness came in waves, and he was so ashamed of the disgust he had for the infant.

"Sir?" The midwife questioned.

"His name is Thomas."

Disposing his charge back to the arms of the elderly woman, he turned his head.

"I wish not to be disturbed."

With a slam of the door, the Vicomte said goodnight, the midwife still looking on in shock. She looked down at the baby with a sigh of pity.

"Welcome to the world, little Thomas."

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