I have started yet another fic all you people. But now it is my favourite musical of all time THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA! Now then, I have nothing against the book by Leroux, or Kay, BUT I don't like my Erik's ugly on both sides. I like my half-masked Erik's. My Andrew Lloyd Webber Erik's. And I have nothing at ALL against all the other guys who have played him, especially the guy who played him in England (can't remember his name) but I have fallen in love with the movie Erik, coz he's my future husband. I know some of you are a bit perfectionist and may think me shallow for loving Gerik, but it's a free world. I like the fact he's young anyway…So, on with my newest fic,

Masked Rose

Disclaimer: I do not own any Phantom of the Opera's versions ever made. However, if anyone could track down the Gerard Butler Erik, I would gladly take him instead. Stuff Christine. Let her have that long-haired pansy who calls himself Raoul. (sticks out tongue) Does anyone else get the feeling I don't truly care for Raoul? (stops sticking pins in her Raoul Voodoo doll and looks up curiously) Never mind…

Chapter 1: Return

Christine crossed the room slowly, her eyes glancing at the newspaper that had been flung onto the table some time ago by the restless hands of Raoul, her husband. Life as a Comtesse had not come easily, she still moved awkwardly about the rooms, trying hard not to smash an expensive vase, or knock over a delicate plate of china resting daintily on an elaborately carved table. It was all so different to the Opera dormitories…but no, she didn't think of that anymore. She was married, happily married. The morning light blinded her, turning her hair to shaded sunlight.

About to move in the extravagant sitting room, she paused, the corner of her eye catching the bold headline of the newspaper which sprawled across the table. It read Phantom of the Opera… the rest of the line was obscured, flipped over by a playful breeze stirring the lacy curtains. Swiftly, though her stomach churned, she moved across and smoothed the paper down, hands shaking. …Caught At Last! For a second she stared at the words numbly, uncomprehending. It could not be true… He was a man that couldn't just be caught, as the headline jeeringly confirmed. But what would you care?, a nasty voice inside said. You left him that night, a year ago it was. A year ago today. You left him there for the mob and left. You have not spoken of it since but you have not forgotten, have you? You haven't forgotten his heartbroken eyes, gleaming in the night…

It had been a year ago. He wouldn't have been crazy enough to turn himself in on the anniversary of her rejection, would he? Jerking herself away from the paper where it flapped mockingly at her, the headline rippling, she stumbled backwards.

She couldn't bring herself to read the details of his defeat, the gloating article which ridiculed a man they didn't know. She could just imagine the blow -by –blow account they would give of his capture, how they would strip him bare, turn every cry of defiance into the howls of a madman, every word he spoke the threats of a deranged murderer.

'You didn't know him!' she screamed at the paper. Why are you so upset, the voice crowed. You should care nothing for the man whose heart you shattered. You should be happy he will die at the hands of others at last. Does he not deserve it? At last the noose shall tighten around his own neck and his reign of terror shall be ended. I thought you didn't care about him, Christine. Why are you crying? And she was. Ignoring the stares of the household staff, she raced upstairs, locked the door and dissolved into tears for her Angel. When at last she stopped, she stared out her window, over the misty vineyards and pastures that was the Vitcomte's estate. Rain pattered on the roof, nature mourning better than Christine ever could for her teacher, as she stared into the distance towards Paris.

Antoinette Giry crossed the corridor to her quarters, sighing deeply. It had been a long rehearsal today, the ballet rats much more relaxed and talkative in the knowledge that the Phantom would haunt them no more. She sighed again at the thought of Erik, locked away in a cell somewhere, every unpleasant memory in his past coming to choke him. And when they decided to kill him at last… would she have the courage to watch his last moments?

Opening her door, she slipped gently in and moved to sit at her comfortable chair. And stopped. The cover had been removed from her bed. Moving forward slightly, she looked about for some logical reason for its absence and jumped involuntarily. A slight cough had rung through her room. Was it her imagination? But no, there was a rustling coming from behind the long cupboard that adorned one wall. Slowly, she looked around the cupboard for her intruder. Who she saw made her mouth fall open, all courtesy or grace forgotten. 'It can't be,' she gasped. 'Erik!'

The man was sprawled behind her cupboard in an obvious effort to remain unnoticed to any casual observer from her door, the wool drape from her bed slung about his thin shoulders as they shook convulsively. His clothes were mere rags, tattered and torn, hanging from his tense body like broken banners and they were stained crimson from concealed wounds. He had no mask and his startlingly glazed blue eyes swept over her as though she wasn't there. Slowly, against her better judgment, one of her fine hands crept down towards him, encountering the feverish heat rising off him in sick waves, causing it to halt in its descent. Then it continued, touching his shoulder as lightly as a bird alights on a delicate branch and slowly rose and fell with his unusual gasps for air which racked his thin frame. She squeezed it. 'Erik.'

Her voice was soft, yet demanding, as though she roused a child from slumber. Antoinette felt him jerk against her hold, his overly-bright eyes focusing on her hand and then the fear which rolled off him at her touch sent her reeling. It was almost a black force, rolling out in a fierce wave. She watched him struggle to rise, his eyes dark with remembered fears and implied more force onto his shoulders, trying to keep him down. 'Erik, it's me. Please don't rise; I fear you shall injure yourself more. Can you hear me? Erik?' But her words were in vain. The fear in his eyes intensified at her voice and then slowly died as his eyes closed. He slumped onto her floor and remained still, his shuddering breaths calming until she could barely hear them at all, his pulse unsteady and faint. Antoinette watched fearfully, her hands helpless at her sides, her mind whirling.

'Meg? Meg!' The petite blonde turned at the voice of her mother, hastening down the hallway to her mother's quarters. Her mother hung at the door, looking anxious and worn. 'What is it? What is the matter?'

'You must go, go and find Doctor Sebastian quickly!' Meg's eyes opened wide. Although the doctor was an old friend, his administrations had begun to cost too much and Madame Giry normally healed such illness that might strike the cast with natural remedies. 'What is wrong, Maman? Are you sick?' Her mother did look rather pale, clutching onto the doorframe with white-knuckled hands. 'Go child! Hurry!'

So Meg turned, heart pounding with anxiety, and tore through the corridors, her grace and agility as a dancer paying off as she dodged and snaked her way through a tangle of people, costumes and props, flying onto the street, ignoring the looks the well-dressed observers of tonight's opera gave her fleeing form and flew on winged feet towards the doctors house.

Doctor Sebastian did not often get visited by the Girys so he was very surprised when Meg Giry burst through his door, blonde hair flying in her wake and nearly knocked him flying, panting some story about her mother being sick and sending her to him. The doctor was quite surprised but allowed Meg to tow him out the door, pausing only to grab a bag filled with necessary items he took on house visits. Another breathless dash down the street and then the bright lights and joyful shouts of the Opera Populaire. Doctor Sebastian was finally allowed to rest against one of the corridors outside Madame Giry's quarters, trying to catch his breath as Meg tapped lightly on her mother's door, calling softly through the wood. The door opened and Madame Giry slipped out, drawing herself up with her normal erect posture and challenging gaze. She did not look, in any way, sick at all, at least, to his experienced eyes. For a second, Antoinette's proud gaze bent over the two, then her eyes softened and she bowed her head. 'Doctor.'

'Madame. I take it you are not the reason for my visit?'

Madame Giry's eyes darkened for a moment. How would the good doctor, their friend for so long, react to the sight of a convicted prisoner unconscious in her chambers? She dipped her head, acknowledging his shrewd guess and led the way into the room, shutting the door tightly behind them.

As Meg and Doctor Sebastian took in the scene of the crumpled man before them, the atmosphere was electric. Almost on some premature instinct, Antoinette dived for her daughter, wrapping a strong hand about her mouth and choking off the foolish girl's screams as she beheld the Phantom. Desperately swinging her head around for the doctor's reaction, she was relieved to see no abrupt reaction, merely a slight tightening of his lips and his half-lidded eyes opened wide to take in Erik, washing over him with their deep power, before shutting them once more. As the muffled moans of the terrified Meg died away, her eyes wide over her mother's hand, silence settled on the room, with all gazes now focused on Erik himself.

Almost as though he felt the eyes upon him, Erik stirred, his dull eyes opening to stare uncomprehendingly at the faces before him. Images and visions swirled annoyingly in his head, blurring his vision. Erik shook his head, trying to clear it, unwilling to be completely vulnerable in front of these others. He sat up against the wood cupboard and promptly fell back against it again, wincing as his broken ribs shifted slightly with the movement.

The voices from those that stood over him melded, flowing together into intelligible slurs and it was only when one of the figures reached out for him that he gasped slightly, flinching from the touch, the undercurrents of pain flowing through his body roaring at the movement. Blinking angrily, cursing his body's weakness, Erik fixed violent eyes on his watchers. One was Antoinette, her face white and stern, closed even as she gazed on his with worried eyes. And her flighty daughter, Meg, whose terror of him in this pathetic state forced a cruel smile onto his hollow face…but it was the third which caused a thrill of fury down his spine. A man, whose wary, prejudiced gaze mocked the leather bag he held in his hand. A doctor, certainly. With a mocking smile, Erik turned his gaze to Antoinette, rising slowly and painfully from the ground, holding the wall for support. 'And who else has come to stare? Are there guards behind the door? Are there people selling tickets to come and stare at the freak, Madame?'

There was so much pain in his voice, such cruel amusement, Madame Giry noticed. His smile was mocking, yet she knew he was hurt she had brought the doctor, felt betrayed and used in his grudging trust of her. The doctor was just one more to judge him, two more eyes to turn disgusted from his face. It was so sad to see his distrust, even after all these years… She watched his eyes dart across the room, listening for the footsteps of the guards, so on edge, even in his weakened state. He stumbled slightly and Doctor Sebastian moved to help instinctively but was stopped by an outflung hand. 'Don't touch me,' Erik breathed. His body radiated ice and his voice was as menacing as it had been the night of the disaster, when she had tracked him down in the labyrinth of his passages and dragged him back to his ravaged lair. The sheer pain of his voice and his body that night still haunted her. Erik had let his guard down, unhinged by that last meeting with Christine and Raoul. She had forced the story from him at last, though it had meant cornering him like a panther in a cage.

Afterwards, he had grasped his indifference and his arrogance and drawn them around him like a cloak, sweeping from her presence with his terrible self-control reinstated, his tortured eyes fathomlessly deep.

The doctor backed off, intimidated by Erik's savage manner at least, rather than any physical attributes. Erik had always been slim before but had had wide shoulders and a muscled physique. Now his clothes hung off him, his gaunt and wasted body trembling in its efforts to keep him upright. His eyes glittered crazily in his face and the mocking smile that twisted on his face made him look, in the shadows, more a deranged murderer than any paper could describe. Slowly, the Phantom backed from them, one arm hugging his discoloured ribs, the other still up defensively against any sudden treachery. He flicked a glance at her and she shook her head, begging him not to…but his smile only became deeper and he shook his head, barely a movement.

They both knew full well about his secret passageway by which he could access her office both swiftly and silently. Now he was going to back through it, away from the eyes, away from her betrayal of his privacy. She could almost imagine his thoughts. I will not stay here and be judged, Madame, until the soldiers come. Then, suddenly, someone knocked loudly on the door, calling for Madame Giry.

In the second she turned her head to look at the door and looked back, to the only man she could not stay with her freezing glare nor order around with her imperious manner, he had disappeared, a ghost of his opera once again.

Must review or I'll…I'll…send Erik after you in his Masquerade Red Death outfit!

MOOHAHHAHAHAHAAAA! (Actually that wouldn't be so bad come to think of it…) But he'd have his sword…hmmm…is Madame Giry's first name really Antoinette? I'm not sure. Someone tell me! REVIEW PEOPLE!

Signing out, from Taluliaka