A/N: Please forgive the delay in updating. I hope the wait was worth it! I think that this is one of my favorite chapters so far. Thanks again to my reviewers! To Mrs. Butler (and anyone else who is opposed to a fully-masked Erik): As I've stated before, this work is based off of both Leroux's cannon and Kay's Phantom and not the 2004 movie. In both Leroux and Kay, Erik wears a full mask because his deformity covers his entire face. Erik's not supposed to be pretty. Besides, the full mask will be a plot point a little later on. ;)

With that said, I hope you all enjoy this latest installment!


Chapter Three:
A Rose of Blood

You will not be abandoned. Never had Erik spoken truer words. Since the moment he had first observed the delicate flower that had nestled herself just inside the perimeter of his domain, he knew that she would be his. She had to be his; never had he been so captured by pure innocence. And perhaps her innocence would be the winning antidote for the enchantment in which he was bound.

Too many years had passed since that fateful night; he had stopped keeping track of the calendar's progression long ago. He harbored a deep-rooted bitterness towards the enchantress that had imprisoned him here, and he doubted her word that her spell could be broken by love. Still, he waited; keeping a watchful eye out for fair young maidens who may break the spell gave him some deviation from his solitude. He thought it a perfectly ironic twist that his face should resemble the living dead; as long as the enchantment lasted, he was immortal, and he thought it quite fitting that the face of one who had lived for centuries should look as though it had been decaying from his birth.

He sat in his chambers, mulling over his newly formed plan. It had been just over four days since his belle's last visit (he called her his belle, for he did not know her name), the day her father had left for the village. He calculated a time line in his mind: with a day and a half of travel each way and perhaps a five-day stay in town, which would give him ample time to sell off his goods, he could expect the old man's approach within the next four days. He would greet him with the greatest civility, complement his daughter's striking beauty, and give the old man a month's time to relinquish his daughter. If he was resistant, an ultimatum would be in order: his daughter or his life, for with Erik, it was indeed a life or death matter. The dear child who was so enraptured by his voice could learn to love him, he was certain.


It had been four days since her father had left for town; four days since she had seen her haven transformed; four days since her Angel of Music had spoken to her. Her heart still trembled with joy at the memory of his voice, how he had so tenderly addressed her. Sometimes she still wondered if it had been nothing but a dream. She had remembered each word he had spoken to her, but she held most dearly to his promise that he would not abandon her. You will not be abandoned. You have found favor with the Angel of Music. Even now, she heard him singing inside her head that song of perfect peace and reassurance.

She had worked especially diligently at keeping up the household in her father's absence, hoping only to continue to please her Angel. Her father had left her with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to return with enough revenue for them to live more comfortably. He had asked her if there was any trinket she desired that he may be able to spare a few pence for in return for her diligent care over the past months. She had answered him with a dreamy sigh, thinking of the wild roses in which she reveled each afternoon on her visits to her Angel. What wouldn't she give to have a few rose seeds to plant around the house to remind her of the happy afternoons spent at her ruins and to keep her Angel nearer to her memory? She had asked for rose seeds - not many; just enough to plant a cheery little garden to which she could tend and sometimes sit and dream in. She knew that no other earthly rose could compare to the wild rose bushes which lined the path to her Angel's paradise, but she desired any small comfort which she could find. Her father had promised her the seeds and left her alone for a fortnight with her memories and dreams.


Erik was growing impatient. Six more days had passed with no sign of his belle's father. He paced around his chambers in frustration, stopping at times to sit at his grand organ - which took up one whole wall of his bedroom suite - and work his fingers in a frenzy over the keys. He was composing for her; he had decided to begin some preliminary work on their wedding mass, for one never knew what the future might hold. He had begun to pace the floor again when his agitated thoughts were interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

"Erik, I hate to see you in such a state."

He turned his head to the doorway to see the spectral shade of his loyal advisor and only friend.

"You have not been in such an anxious state since the day--"

Erik whirled violently around in a sudden fury, looming ominously over his all but invisible servant. "I thought I warned you never to speak of that day!" he sneered. He composed himself with some effort, then continued in an unaffected tone, "What is it you want, my dear Daroga?"

"Only to find what troubles you so," he replied. "It's the girl, isn't it?" he added in a wary tone.

Erik snarled at him from his organ where he now sat brooding. "What business is it of yours?" he snapped. "I swear, Daroga, if it weren't for your insufferable loyalty, I would have thrown you out on your hide long ago. You had damn well better be grateful that I had the gracious courtesy to save your Persian skin when I did!"

Nadir did not have to be reminded of Erik's strange act of mercy so many years ago. The tyrant would forever hold him in his debt, he knew, but that still did not keep him from effectively playing his role of royal advisor. If anyone was in need of a conscience and a guide, it was Erik, and Nadir was happy to play that role as effectively as possible. Someone needed to keep him in touch with his last shreds of sanity and humanity, the poor fellow; at the time of the enchantment, most of his master's servants had fled for fear of being enchanted themselves. The few who stayed were cursed to invisibility. It was a small price to pay, however, to act as a friend to his deserted master.

"You think she is the one, then?" he pressed on, despite Erik's foul mood and ominous non-verbal warnings.

Erik cast him a despairing glance. "Is she not female and breathing, Daroga?"

"Yes, she is," he quietly replied.

"Then yes, I do think that she may be 'the one.' Now, leave me. When I say that I do not wish to be disturbed, I mean precisely that." With that, Erik resumed his composition with no further regard for his damnable advisor or anything further he might wish to say.


The storm in which the old man was caught increased in its intensity. His horse had lost its way long ago, and the black, angry clouds which obscured the midnight sky did nothing to help their cause. Still he prodded the humble steed on, figuring that some progress was better than wasting away in the treacherous night. He was obviously ill as he sat hunched in his saddle, nearly gnarled hands gripping the reigns, attacked by a hacking fit of uncontrollable coughing. He knew he could not last much longer in such conditions, and he hung his head in defeat at the realization that he had failed his only daughter, the cherished pride of his life. He had not been able to afford her desired rose seeds in town, and now he would die out here alone, leaving her abandoned and without a half-pence to her name.

But wait, what was that rising above the trees? His aging eyes must have deceived him. No, there it was again: a flash of lightning had illuminated a black tower standing stark against the sky. Hope fluttered within him once again; if he could reach the tower, perhaps he could entreat whoever lived there to allow him to pass the night under its shelter. He nudged his horse forward with a new determination.

It seemed to take little time for him to reach the rusting iron gates which enclosed the tower, which he now could see was annexed to a much grander structure. He dismounted his horse with sudden uncertainty; something deep within him urged him to turn back, but he ignored it, rationalizing that taking shelter from the deadly storm was the wiser choice. Besides, he was quite lost, and perhaps whoever lived here would be able direct him to his right path in the morning.

A strange thing happened as he eased open the creaking gate and stepped inside. The rain around him suddenly ceased, the howling wind reduced to a gently whispering breeze. A fog rose up in front of him, obscuring his view of the courtyard in which he stood, but a sliver of light from the full moon cut through the clouds and mist, illuminating a single red rose which grew at his feet. Never had he seen a rose that was so deep a red; its heart was scarlet, while its petals were the deep crimson of blood. Immediately, he stooped to pluck it; if he could not bring his Little Lotte her rose seeds, at least he could bring her a rose.

Suddenly, a shadow fell upon him before he could rise. Glancing up, he saw the black silhouette of a man outlined against the fog, a terrifying shadow emanating malice. From beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat, the old man thought he saw the hint of a white mask which covered the shade's entire face.

"Welcome, Monsieur," a black, velvet voice said. "You have been expected for some time, now."