Title: Wandering Child

Summary: Broken in mind and spirit, Erik returns to his lair to die...and wakes to find himself in a different time, with the same problems...and a new Christine. EC, mix of Leroux and ALW.

A/N: Anyway, new story that wouldn't leave me alone. It's probably been done, but Erik wouldn't get out of my head...and we all know how...insistant Erik can be when he doesn't get his way. So... read on!

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with the Phantom of the Opera except the 2004 DVD, the 1987 Original London Cast Recording, and an unhealthy fixation on Gerard Butler.

Prologue

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'Erik is dead', the Epoque will read tomorrow. And it will be true; Erik is already dead to those who matter to him. I have given up on everything. My life is worthless. Christine is gone, the Opera burned, most of my music destroyed. I have nothing to live for. I have closed what few affairs I had with the outside world, I have hidden that which is mine, that which will always be mine, and I have returned to my house by the lake. When I have finished writing this last insight into a madman's mind, I will go once more to my music room; once more to the Louis-Philippe room which I made for my darling Christine. One last time to the boat and the siren, and then Erik will be dead. Christine will return; she promised me she would return, and I believe her. I let her leave; I could not keep her, she who would stay with me to spare the life of her beloved. I let her leave, but she will return to bury me. If she will find this, I cannot predict; I have many skills, clairvoyance not among them. I will leave it here, on my desk, and anyone who ventures into the ruins of the Phantom's domain will find it.

-Erik

Tears now spotted the page upon which the Opera Ghost wrote these words. Heartbroken and alone again, he despaired at ever feeling joy again, and so planned to end his miserable existence and let Christine live in peace. Folding the paper carefully, he sealed it with the infamous skull of blood-red wax which the managers of the Opera had always learned to fear receiving. Fitting that it encase the final words of the Phantom.

Leaving the note on the desk, Erik stood dejectedly, walking slowly through his house once more. The memories attached to this place were many, though few of them were good. Most of all, it was haunted not by the famous Ghost, but by the memory of Christine. The room he had made especially for her, the songs he had written with her in mind, the drawings, sketches and paintings, all with her as a subject. Everything reminded him of her.

Sighing, he turned once more to the room where he had slept during his reign at the Opera. He looked once more over his few belongings, his gaze resting the longest on Don Juan Triumphant. True, he had given a score to Monsieur Reyer; but that was the edited version. This, this was his pride and joy, the barings of his soul that he had not wished to let loose upon Paris. In it was everything he had ever wished to say to Christine; it was Don Juan and Aminta, it was Erik and Christine; this would be the work he would take with him to his grave. Picking up the manuscript tenderly, as one would a child, he cast one last glance around the room as he took a small vial from his pocket.

One drop would be enough to kill a man; Erik downed the bottle, and settled himself into the coffin in which he slept.

Erik is dead.