A/N: I kinda forgot to mention this, my bad! Anyways, there seems to be some confusion on which version of Erik I am using. I based His looks on the movie version, because I happen to believe that the half mask is more dramatic and tragic. His actions are very Leroux-esque. This story takes place a year after Christine left him, so he is in a much darker place. He was crushed, his heart was literally stomped on, so if his actions seem to be more harsh...that's why! LoL!

Thanks again to all my wonderful reviewers, I really hope you like this next installment!

This was all a dream, it had to be a dream! I closed my eyes, silently praying that when I opened them, I would find myself comfortably nestled in the security of my boudoir, realizing that this was just a nightmare, some ghastly hallucination that could not have been real.

With a deep breath, I slowly opened my eyes. There He stood, as authentic and as tangible as ever. His arms were sturdy, plunging the oar into the lake's ebony liquid with great force. Though we had been in the boat for some time, He did not waiver. He showed no sign of exhaustion, merely kept a steady rhythm, propelling me closer to His home, and closer to my certain doom. The fury had longed since washed off His face, now replaced by a look of subtle melancholy. Small, faint lines around His eyes and mouth appeared, His expression hinted that His mind was elsewhere. Lost deep in thought, concentrating on something of great importance.

Christine.

I knew He had to be thinking of her. Though I still had much to learn of Erik's relationship with Christine Daaé, I had already formed a strong opinion on the matter. She had left Him down here, abandoned Him, condemned Him to a lifetime of regret. A lifetime to be spent in mourning. He had lost all hope, all reason to live. When Christine had left Erik, she took away more than her beloved vicomte and her precious freedom, she took away Erik's heart.

His lips puckered momentarily, forming His face into a painful grimace. He too, must have been thinking about the grand injustice of it all.

I sat there, at the front of the boat, looking up at Him. It was true, I still disliked Him for how He had hurt me, I was still angry with Him and I knew I would never feel the same way about Him again. But, despite all the physical and mental torment I had suffered in Erik's name, I could not bring myself to hate Him. After all this, I refused to see Him for the monster of which He portrayed. If nothing else, I felt pity for Erik.

His actions were harsh, brutal. They had to be. Here I was, taken prisoner by the Phantom of the Opera, being dragged to His lair. Anyone else would have given up long ago to try and understand His actions, yet here I sat. My legs folded in front of me, elbows propped up on my knees, carefully studying this strange man. My hands throbbed in pain, my jaw was swollen shut, and still I found understanding in my heart.

I understood why He had done all of those horrible things. Why He set fire to the Opera House, why He killed an otherwise innocent stagehand. It was out of love. So in love was He with this naïve little ingénue! She had failed to see past all that though, failed to appreciate the depth of His love. No doubt a mixture of His crazed actions and His facial deformity scared her off. The thought of any woman denying such a man because of a trivial little thing like appearance made me sick to my stomach. Then again, I had not actually seen His face yet.

She could have had the world. He would have worshipped her every day of His life, loved her with every fiber of His being. She would have had wonderful memories and stories of their times spent together to treasure, a devoted companion.

She would have had security, trust, knowing that He never would leave her, for He had no other choice but to live in another world. A world He had built up around Him, a place where beauty was truly in the eye of the beholder. Here, in this perpetual kingdom of darkness, physical beauty ceased to exist. Erik thrived on the beauty of the unknown, the complete fascination that only living in the shadows could bring.

Above all things, she would have had His love.

He caught my eyes staring blatantly at His mask. That cursed mask! How tragic it was to have a face one-half that of divine perfection, every feature flawlessly sculpted. And the other like that of a distorted nightmare, half of a face that caused complete disgust, denying Him of any form of normalcy. I offered no explanation to Him, my mind still trying to comprehend this enigma that stood before me. So I continued to examine, appreciating every small gesture that His face made. Every blink of His eyes, every wrinkle in His brow, every slight scowl that formed upon His lips.

"It is not polite to stare, Mademoiselle," Erik snapped, bringing me out of my reverie.

I said nothing, for I knew there was nothing to say. I averted my gaze away from Him, staring off into the caverns behind His shoulder. Every so often, my eyes would meander their way back to His face. It was a stolen pleasure, the few seconds I would have to study it. Then, before He had the chance to come out of His ever-so-important musings about Her, I would turn my head away, returning to the dumb stupor of staring at the ceiling. I knew He had seen me doing this several times, and I knew that it pestered Him so. For I let my eyes linger a little longer every time, a gruff shot of air expelling through His nostrils notified me that it was, indeed, time to turn away. Our game continued for a few more minutes before we, at last, reached our destination.

The boat came to a sudden stop, knocking my elbows off my legs. I fell forward, but managed to compose myself in time to spare my mouth from crashing onto the wooden surface. Gingerly, I arose, still unsure of how to act. Was He further enraged? Had His temper resided? I decided it was best to say nothing, for a change. Gathering my skirts, and straightening my back, I tried to assemble every ounce of dignity and courage I could find in my weakened body.

Erik departed first, and walked over to stand beside me on the shore. I admit, I was rather frightened to turn around. God knows what horrors lay behind me! Reluctantly, He offered His hand to help me off the unsteady surface. I laughed inwardly, ever the gentleman, even when He is furious with me! I refused it politely, shaking my head, and haughtily threw one foot over the edge. I did not need His help! I was determined to prove that I was not some delicate flower, I was an independent, confidant woman. At least, I thought I was…

Being the exceptionally graceful danseur that I was, my foot caught the ledge and I lost my balance. I toppled over the side, landing in Erik's outstretched arms. I tried to push Him off of me, to deny myself the wonderful feeling of being held securely in those arms. Seeing this as a sign of opposition and struggle, He wrapped those arms around my waist and carted me off the boat, still resistant, to His home.

The moment I saw it, I ceased my pointless thrashing, becoming absolutely still. Trying to absorb it all, my eyes frantically darted from side to side, taking in my new surroundings.

This was not a dream.

It resembled something out of a gothic fairy-tale, an eccentric fantasy. In every aspect, this place was built out of a dream.

Where the lake had ended stood several steps, leading up to His home. The cavern hollowed out, forming a massive great room, where several other rooms branched out from it. A small dining table stood in front of me, accompanied by two chairs. Was He expecting company? The thought was almost ludicrous, dripping with bittersweet irony. He had lived down here alone for years, yet it was constructed in a fashion that was meant to house much more than one person. There were many doors, all shut, of course, that encompassed the room. I guessed that at least one of them was a guest suite.

Did He plan on Christine living here? Did He actually believe that anyone would come to His home voluntarily?

If one had stopped looking there, Erik's home would have not seemed out of the ordinary. In fact, despite being hidden miles under the surface of the Opera House, it would have seemed almost normal.

However, the rest of His dwelling was far from average. Further into the room stood a desk, mounds of paper swelled over the top, spilling onto the floor. Models and drawings were scattered about the makeshift office, bits and pieces of various fabrics tossed carelessly upon the intricate rug. There were sculptured busts statuettes standing near the back of the room, an assortment of different masks all covering half of their likenesses. I noticed one particularly gruesome covering, it greatly resembled Death's head. I remembered Charlotte telling me of the Phantom's unscheduled appearance last year at L'Opera Populaire's annual balle masquée. He had presented His first opera there, nearly terrorizing everyone in attendance.

He roughly set me down next to the table, whipping a chair out from under it. With a long, slender finger He instructed me to 'sit', I did as He commanded. Very timidly, I sunk into the intricately carved back of the wooden chair, nervously wringing my hands in my lap. I expected Him to take a seat in the chair opposite me, but instead He walked further into the room, pacing back and forth. His hair, usually smooth and sleeked back, now hung limp and untidy. His hands running through it every so often as His shoulders rounded, deep in thought. As Erik continued to fight His internal battle, I couldn't help but to indulge myself in another look at His den.

The organ demanded attention. It stood, in the very center of the room, perched up against the back wall. Its presence set the theme for the entire dwelling. The walls surrounding it were covered in rich fabrics, dozens of papers and staff notes pinned to them. Musical scores and detailed sketches were scattered about the floor, strewn about on nearly every desk, every table. I gasped at the grandiose of it all, broad, numerous pipes rising to grace the ceiling, their brass gleaming with the reflection from the water. A violin was resting peacefully on the bench in front of the organ, its expertly crafted bow lying alongside it.

Essentially, Erik was the music. I had been told that the Phantom was somewhat of a musical genius, composing operas and perfecting known classics in His spare time. Spare time? Certainly this was no hobby! No, music was His soul, He thrived on it, lived on it. Perhaps it was the only true way of expressing His feelings, His innermost desires. He had, after all, written His now infamous Don Juan Triumphant to assault the senses, to cloud the mind, to blur people's perception of right and wrong. Of good and evil. Through euphonious notes and intoxicating librettos, He could literally control them with His voice.

This, was truly a terrifying thought. Part of me wanted so badly to hear Erik sing, to play for me and only me, here in the eerie solitude of this cavern. But, part of me wished that I would never have to hear it, never lose my will and be forced to succumb to the dominance of His voice.

Seeming to come to a decision, Erik confidently strode over to me, capturing all the poise of nobility, regality seemed to seep through His every action. His face slipped into that cool, calculating façade that seemed to be His trademark.

"Alessandra," He hissed the word as a snake would, His tongue coming to rest on the back of His teeth, "It would appear that we have much to discuss." And with those last icy words, He seized my arm and pulled me up from the chair, directing me deeper into His lair.