The song "One Song Glory" I think is very PotO-esque. It's about a former rock star who is trying to write another song before he dies. For the Phantom, I think this was what he was accomplishing with Don Juan Triumphant. The song is ever so sad. I might start crying! Go ERIK! Woot!

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Listening at the door to Adrian's room, Erik heard the soft sounds of one asleep, and dared to enter.

Once more, her icy beauty struck him. What would that marble face look like, if pulled into a smile? Somehow, he found it hard to imagine. Whenever he tried, the heart-shaped face and jewel-like eyes faded away, leaving only a smile he had seen on another face. It was as if she didn't know how to smile.

Exiting the room cautiously, not wanting to wake her up, Erik made his way to his expansive library.

Spider-like hands running over the leather spines occupying the shelves, Erik racked his brains in an attempt to choose a book for Adrian. What would interest her? What book could possibly grab her selective attention?

His fingers finally came to rest upon a thin volume, battered from years of use. "The Portrait of Dorian Grey", by Oscar Wilde. Erik pulled the book from the shelf, and skimmed through the introduction. Erik was a very selective reader, and while all that he read immediately stuck itself into his brain, he rarely found a book that he could read for pleasure more than once. This was one of the few. Perhaps she would feel the same.

After choosing a few more books Erik set the stack on a table near the door. He would probably bring those books to her after dinner.

Three days. He had three days to set a foundation for their friendship. As an architect, Erik knew what all men of that trade have pounded into their brains by their teachers: The foundation is the most important part of the building. A shaky foundation could bring even the most perfect building to ruin. This particular one must be built on trust and shared ideas. Their personalities were very similar (at least from what he could see) although that alone would not be enough. Those were only the bricks. Bricks need mortar if they are to stick together.

These thoughts brought his lack of projects to mind. When were they to come? True, he had at least three king's ransoms stowed away in various safe houses across Paris, but he needed to use some of his creative energy. He needed an outlet for the complex staircases and labyrinths that even now ran through his brain.

Paris needed a few more grand sweeping buildings to relieve some of the dingier monuments. He had thousands of plans stashed away in his brain and in various shelves in his workroom. They demanded to be used. All he needed were those magic words from Jules: A new project has come in.

In truth, Erik knew he had become much too idle. In Persia, it had been just the opposite. He had cursed every word the sultana had uttered, every order for a new distraction. Even the simplest toy must be made into an instrument of death. His room of mirrors had been turned into a torture chamber. A work of art turned ugly. How dare she!

Once more, Erik remembered how Isobel sounded so like the sultana. Who was Isobel? She sounded too young to be Adrian's mother. But then again, he had not the slightest clue as to how old Adrian was. Probably in her early twenties, no younger than seventeen, no older than twenty-five.

The clock struck four.

It was an old, detailed grandfather piece. At the change from night to day, the smiling crescent moon behind the etched glass switched to a full sun, and a little tune chimed. As a child, Erik had based his first compositions on the tune. It had sat in the front hall of that grand mansion of his childhood. They really didn't make pieces like that any more.

The ancient clock required constant maintenance in order to stay on time, but otherwise, it was a reliable timepiece.

Everything in his home had memories attached to it. Objects that triggered flash backs were strewn around his home in unexpected places. At times, he would stumble upon one, and memories would flood back. Sometimes those memories were painful, and sometimes happy, but they were too much a part of him to forget.

Everything here was timeless and memory laden. In a world without sun, wind and rain, all things remained perfect and immortal. That was another thing about Adrian that brought life into his dull existence: She was filled with life, like water, ever changing and finding new paths. The diamond among so many dull rocks.

He wanted life. He wanted light other than that from a candle. Music and Adrian were light and life. There was nothing to change or create in the carpet or the clock. But there was new music to write, and a mind to explore in his guest.

Smoke and mirrors are poor companions; love and music are forever.

A fervent wish formed itself deep within his soul. A forbidden wish that beckoned to him with seductive words.

He wanted her to stay forever.

He wanted to always have someone to care for, someone under his roof other than himself, another voice echoing through his halls of stone.

But that was impossible. He would never be able to make her do anything. He might as well ask a rock to spread wings and fly.

But…

No. Get that notion out of your head right now.

But what if he sang to her, commanded her to stay with him forever and always? He would have an eternal companion, someone to talk to, someone who perhaps would respond to him with warmth and love. They would fence and walk beside the lake, talking. For the rest of her life, she would live with him in his home beneath the ground, and he would treat her as more than an equal. She would love him. He knew very well that he could use his voice for such a purpose.

But then he wouldn't have the friend he desired, he would have a lapdog. And it would pain him to see her so humbled. She was a goddess, not a slave.

He wanted to keep her, but he had to let her go. In order to obtain life, he would have to endure ten thousand deaths.

Deaths.

Why was it that he kept overlooking the fact that she had brutally murdered six people?

Unlike a smile, a murderous snarl seemed perfectly in place when applied to that stony countenance. According to the articles and Jules's notes, she had torn out their throats like a wild animal. She had mauled them till their faces were beyond human resemblance.

And yet…

There was something not right. It was as if he had made an infinitesimal mistake in some problem, and it would not become clear what it was till he had the final results. Yes, she had killed those people, but why? Was it just an insane fit that came upon her now and then? Or had she retaliated against some wrong the people had done her? And if the latter was true, then why was she guilty about it?

Once again, Isobel came into the picture.

Erik could not help thinking that Isobel's identity was an integral piece of the puzzle. He needed to find out who she was, and what connection she had to Adrian to really understand any part of the silent girl's mind.

Erik knew that he should be apprehensive of a murderess under his roof, but he was somehow incapable of feeling anything but compassion and admiration for the little lost child who held herself so coldly above the rest of the world.

There was much more under Adrian Cartier's surface than one would think. She was not just a haughty ice queen who glided on a surface of indifference. There was black, churning smoke beneath those distant gems that took the place of eyes.

Erik could sense the guilt that plagued her night and day. It hung around her slight form like a premonition of death. Guilt was not just an emotion, it was a taste on the air. He remembered that crushing sense of guilt he had had with him from birth, that realization that he was a terrible mistake, one of the few made by God. He had felt only guilt for his face, guilt that it frightened his mother till she hated him with unrestrained passion. Until he had discovered power.

That guilt, while ever present, had been put neatly away when he had discovered his power to strike fear into the heart of humankind. How that power had intoxicated him! The power of God surging through his veins! He was God then, and all men were subject to him. Necromancy, science, nature and all forms of legerdemain were his to command.

Erik had never really felt guilty about killing the odd person once in a while. Some people just deserved to die. The deaths in Persia had been a waste, true. But he had never really felt guilty about it then, and only felt the slightest twinge of remorse now. A bit egotistical, possibly, but the human race was the category of a large number of annoying individuals who would do the world a favor by simply doing themselves in. Of course, being human, they had not the slightest instinct of when to die, and continued to add more suffering and annoyance to the world because of their stupidity, until another obliging member of the human race, old age or disease took them to a well earned grave. Yes, some people had deserved to die under his hands. And who was there to argue the point?

And oh, how sweet it was! He had everything in Persia, everything that could be paid or threatened for. And that was where his awesome supremacy stopped short.

He could have everything but what money and threats could not buy. That was the poison in power's sweet, golden honey. The one thing he desired beyond power was a woman's affection, and not all the gold in the world could possibly procure even a morsel of it.

Erik slammed his hand upon the tabletop and the books fell to the floor. It was times like these when he was most convinced that his life was a tragic farce being staged for someone else's enjoyment. He could not, would not think of Christine. All humans are born with the innate ability to protect themselves, and by keeping Christine from his thoughts, Erik was keeping himself from being torn apart from the inside. So close, he was so close to having her for his own, until that…boy…

How? How in God's name could that female still wrench out his brain after so long? Why did he feel so murderous at the thought of her, and at the same time, so hopeless?

He sat down heavily in his chair.

He had built an entire life on Christine, and entire existence based on her, and she had destroyed it. The pillars had started to tumble the second she had seen his face. And, like a fool, he had gone on believing that she would stay with him always, in spite of that horrifying face he had used to make a nation cower at the sound of his laughter. Oh yes, he was a fool.

He was like the astronomer in Aesop's fable. The wise man, while contemplating the stars in the heavens, failed to notice the ditch he was walking into, and tumbled in head first, breaking his neck. Erik's predicament was the same. His head had been clouded with thoughts of happiness, and he had broken more than is neck.

She had been planning on leaving without even telling him, she had planned to leave him in his underground home, watching the clock, counting the moments till she would appear…but she wouldn't. He would wait, pacing to and fro, wondering what was taking her so long, anxiously clenching and unclenching his hands. And he would wait there for hours until he went up to look for her, only to discover that she had vanished into thin air, with that insolent boy who professed to love her.

She would leave him to a sure death, because she loved the boy back. And she did not love her angel of music. Oh yes, she cared for him as a friend and teacher, but she could never love him. He was the omniscient force behind so many lives; few people can talk directly with God. All good Christians revere God, but they are also afraid of Him. That was the difference between The Phantom of the Opera and the human race in general. He was venerated, but in no way was he loved.

If it weren't for him, she would only be another chorus girl, another ornament to the stage, no more than a silk flower.

But he had brought her to greatness. All he wanted was her love, and what he received was betrayal. She would break his heart and suffer but one sleepless night before returning to normal. The living dead man who breathed his magic into songs was only a bad dream, and now she would raise a family with the man she loved.

The clock struck six, shaking Erik from his dark reverie.

It was time for Adrian's dinner. She would need food to gain her strength and then to rejoin those who lived at the surface. He would give her supper, and then, perhaps they would talk.

This was his second chance at happiness. A chance to help an independent woman who needed him more than anyone else ever would. As he needed her.

Maybe this is all a mistake. Perhaps I should just knock her out, carry her to her room and let her think this was all a dream.

"Shut up, you. I have enough on my mind at the moment."

You know what happened the last time. What if it happens again?

"It won't happen again. I'll be more careful this time."

She isn't a child the way Christine was. You won't be able to fool her.

"I don't plan to."

If you don't fool her, how will you capture her affection?

"Well, however I do, you'll be the first to know!"

You're much too old for her.

"I'm not old!"

That's probably over ten years of difference.

"Who said how old she was?"

Take an educated guess, you can figure it out.

"She's older than me, in some ways."

Some isn't enough. She needs someone young, someone who…

"I'm young enough! Why do we keep coming back to how old I am?"

Because old or not, you are too old for her.

"Why don't you jump in the lake?"

Why don't you crawl into the sewers and die?

"Who says I haven't?"

She's afraid of you.

Silence.

She's deathly afraid of you. The only reason you aren't dead is because she's sick. And that's all. The second she gets back on her feet, she'll kill you, and then she'll run away and continue to kill, because that's her nature. She. Is. An. Animal. And an animal does whatever is necessary to survive. She is afraid of you, and she will kill you if she gets the chance. Dose her food with laudanum, wait till she's unconscious, and then take her to her room. She will forget all about you. It was all a bad dream…

"NO!"

The other voice ceased. No. Somehow, it was all wrong. It had to be wrong. There was something that told him Adrian was not directly at fault. She needed him to protect her, but he knew not from what.

She needed him. And he would aid her as best he could.

Wasn't that what he wanted in the first place?

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Madame Bufont was not a woman inclined to be nervous. She never let herself be. She was far too busy to be nervous. On top of her demanding job, she had her grandson Oscar to support, and his nurse to pay. She had been ridiculed by the other children as a child, and had taught herself not to be nervous, but let all things that weren't important slip off her like water off a duck's back.

But she was nervous now, and intensely worried.

She had not seen Adrian Cartier within the last three days, and was beginning to wonder where she had gone. She had searched the Opera House in her spare time, interrogating employees and M. Wagner. No one seemed to know where Mlle. DeFleurette's maid had gone.

Finally, in an act of desperation, she had walked up to the diva and inquired Adrian's whereabouts.

The lady had looked up from her polished nails, and had stared at Madame Bufont with a mixture of fright and disbelief. Then, she had breezily said something about not knowing where the maid had gone, and then flounced off to the shopping district.

There was something wrong in that. Madame Bufont had not previously assessed the diva as capable of murder, but the circumstances were too curious to be ignored. Adrian was missing, and the diva had something to do with it.

In the past few days, the temperature had dropped far too low for early October. Snow and rain mixed as they fell to produce stinging sleet, and the streets were slippery.

Trying to ignore the cold, she climbed the steps that led to her second story apartment. It was almost as cold in the stairwell as it was outside, but there was a fire roaring at home.

She turned the key in the lock and opened the door to a cheerful blaze. But she still felt cold beneath the skin.

What if Adrian was dead? Where on earth was she if she lived? Was she cold and hungry?

Calm down Manon, calm down. She's probably visiting a friend. Or a relative. Or she's at the bottom of a ditch with her throat slit…

Sitting in her armchair, Madame Bufont sighed with exhaustion.

Her multiple mindsets were demanding, and it took a lot of energy to juggle them during the day. With "wanted" posters and bloodied daggers on her mind, she fell asleep.

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Adrian awoke suddenly, her body shaking convulsively, every scar burning white hot. When it was over, she rolled over gingerly. Her ribs were aching, and her head throbbed unpleasantly. She only had that dream once in a blue moon, and it always brought disastrous effects on her mind and body. Her thoughts were vulnerable and weak, and so muddled that she never remembered the dream.

A knock sounded on the door, and it opened.

It was him. Adrian almost held her breath, for some reason grateful that the canopy was still enshrouding her bed. She was not sure how she could face him in her state, while her hands shook and she could feel that her eyes were still wide and carrying the uncertain dread of the dream. Pretending to be asleep, Adrian watched her host with odd fascination. For some reason, his every movement seemed vastly important and laden with meaning. Her eye was naturally drawn to him in a way that she could not reason with.

He seemed to eye her critically through the curtain, as if wondering whether to wake her, and then set something heavy on the bedside table, before moving away and exiting the room. He never made a single sound. Everything he did seemed to be done with utmost care and attention, and even his breath made no noise. For a moment, Adrian was reminded of something, as if she had known this man centuries ago, but failed to call him to mind. The feeling soon passed, and Adrian made no attempt to stop it. Notions of that nature often evaporated entirely when pursued. It would return of its own accord at another time. For now, the thing he had set by the bed demanded attention.

It was a heavy, silver tray topped with a lid that warmed her hands. More of the delicious food she had eaten earlier! She lifted the tray carefully, and set it in her lap, propping herself up on the pillows. The lid opened to a rich smell and plenty of steam.

Lamb stew, mixed with spices, potatoes and carrots. It was accompanied by crusty white bread, a glass of water and a mug of tea.

Adrian immediately dived upon the fork, and only a last moment's restraint kept her from shoving her face into the dark, oily broth. The food only continued to get better, and this time, she could feel a bit of her vitality come back.

The meal finished, a black-edged envelope caught her eye. A note from him.

She opened it carefully, noting the precise, yet slightly spidery handwriting. The note was brief, cold and unsigned.

Mlle. Cartier,

When you have finished your meal, please join me in the room at the end of the hall. There are a few things I wish to discuss with you.

Once again, he kept strictly away from anything even approaching conversation. His writing was just as cold and metallic as his speech.

The room at the end of the hall…he must mean the room I was in earlier.

Wondering vaguely what he wished to tell her, she pushed away the canopy and swung her legs over the side. The action took more effort than she had thought it would. The room spun for a few moments before she regained her head.

Lurching to her feet, Adrian limped towards the door. Suddenly, movement caught her eye. Realizing that it was only her reflection, Adrian took a single glance at the girl in the vanity mirror, and then did a double take.

She looked like a dandelion someone had just puffed on. Tufts of hair stuck out from her head, while the rest lay flat and oily on her scalp. Her cheeks seemed hollow and there were substantial circles under her eyes.

I must be more ill than I thought.

Sitting at the vanity, Adrian picked up the brush that lay there and pulled it slowly through her unruly locks. She met with tangles, and abandoned the brush for a comb.

A memory stirred in the back of her head. Someone had used to brush her hair, made her take care of it. They used to sit her down before a mirror and pull the brush over her golden tresses, taming it into a long, straight braid that didn't get in her way.

Adrian could not say why she kept her hair so long. It wasn't one of Isobel's rules. She herself was not particularly vain. But for some reason, she was proud of her hair. Proud of it because someone else had been proud of it long ago.

Her heart began to pound in her ears, drowning out the silence. THUD. THUD. THUD.

Her pulsing hell was returning, and this time, there was no music to push it away, no voice to wrap her in its smooth embrace.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Dropping the comb, Adrian pressed her hands to her temples, wildly attempting to squeeze it out of her brain.

So long ago. It had been so long ago. She had forgotten those terrible things for good!

Oh please go away…please.

No! She was steel, made of stronger stuff, and steel has no memory.

Long ago, someone used to be proud of her. Love. She had had love before.

Long ago. She had had no soul then, she had no soul now. No heart. No memory.

Isobel, help me!

Calm now, easy, easy…tighten the shoulders, stiff upper lip. There's nothing to be upset about. See? It is forgotten. Nothing of the sort happened. Hush now, my love. Nothing happened. It was but a dream, from which you have happily awoken. Yes, yes…I know darling, I know. The moon turns away, the stars are cold, and the earth whispers for your blood. But see, I can make it all go away. I will make you numb.

Yes. All those years ago, when her heart had pounded her to death, and she had screamed wildly for Isobel to help her. And Isobel had.

Adrian picked up the comb again.

Her dress was folded on a chair and waiting for her. Pulling it over her now braided and coiled hair, Adrian blinked dispassionately, ready to meet Him. The was no past to mar her face with humanity, only silent stone. She would give him common courtesy, listen closely, and answer his questions. It was so easy to tell a lying truth and hide behind her eyes.

Walking slowly, and with great care, Adrian opened the door to the room and shut the door to her mind.

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Well, kiddies…were it worth the wait? I was having some creative issues. I couldn't find myself; I was walking away from the light…you know, that sort of thing. Sorry that nothing has really happened yet. In the next chapter, perhaps. Much love…and such!