Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding our beloved Erik, nothing...except that he is my living animus... (ref. - Carl Gustav Jung)

Prologue: The Monk

"In nomine Patris et Filis..." Softly, softly, the words wafted to his mind on the torrid desert breeze, as he sought some shade for respite. He was alone for now, and it suited him thus. Alone had he always been, would forever be, but for the everpresent One whose solace had spared him a lingering descent into madness. Surely He had felt thus, when He had hung upon that cross, scorned and shunned by all, even His own Father...as He bore the sins of the world. The monk closed his eyes agaisnt the desert light, so alien to him, who had long been accustomed to living in the dark, accompanied by his tormented thoughts, by an impossible love...

He had gone without food and water the entire day, and still he did not yearn for them. His only concern now was his risen Savior, who blessed him with the most exquisite visions...His music now played entirely in his head, while he gazed out upon the sand dunes, broken in the distance by the incredible verdor of an oasis that appeared to be a mirage, but, thankfully, was not. He would visit it from time to time, to pray and commune with the monks who lived there. They always wanted him to tarry, but he inevitably found himself growing restless in their company, longing to be alone once more, with his Lord. So it was that they would reluctantly let him go, and he would return to the ruins that were his solitary home.

At night, the temperature dropped considerably, and he was forced to build a small fire to keep himself warm. It was at such times, especially under a full moon, that the visions would come to him. They transported him into the very heart of the universe, where the living furnace of love dwelt, where his heart would fuse with that of a Being so awesome, and yet so human...He had never felt such ecstasy...not even in the arms of she who had been the one longing of his lonely heart...He learned what true love was during these times when he was alone, touching the face of the Almighty.

There were times when his soul would take flight, borne on the wings of music, and he would then pull out the music paper he still received from Paris. Nadir had not forgotten him, and, indeed, was able to visit him at least two or three times a year, as his budding business and now-growing family allowed.

He would pull out the music paper, no longer writing upon it with blood-red ink, but instead using the most beautiful shade of blue-black. He would start scribbling, as heaven dictated. His heart would soar as he wrote, often singing the penned melodies to himself, offering them up to God as his prayer, although he did engage in formal prayer, also. If the memory of his eternal beloved came to him during such moments, he would pause, and engage in meditation, which he had learned from Nadir. It always helped, though not entirely. He doubted that he would ever be able to excise her from his thoughts, but, more and more, his God was an ever-consuming fire within him. He now lived to pay Him homage, singing, praying, and composing melodies for Him here in the desert, in the shadow of the ruins of an ancient monastery...

The Book of Psalms was a great comfort to him now. How was it that he had never bothered to delve into its treasures, when he lived his agonized, miserable existence beneath the Opera House? Ah, if he had then done so! None of the ensuing madness would have transpired! Perhaps he would have never become so obsessed with her...

He closed his eyes in prayer, breathing deeply, and the chill night breeze caressed his strangely twisted visage, as he felt himself being pulled into the depths of his heart, where He always patiently awaited, to shower His infinite love upon the lone monk...

"Ah, my Father," he whispered tearfully, "why did it take me so long to understand your great love for me in the midst of this great torment?" He lifted his head to the starry night above him, as an unsung melody swept through him, together with the beginning words of Psalm 42: "As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God..."