Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera, Susan Kay's Phantom, or Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical.

Turn of the Tide

"Beginning of the End"

It was not long after I had sent Christine and her Vicomte away that the presence of the angry mob was being felt in my home. Nadir stood by me like a faithful hound waiting to lead his despairing master from the imminent danger. I sat on the divan, my mask discarded on the floor and my head in my hands as I relived the last moments in Christine's presence. I had never known such bliss in my existence, and was surely to never experience it again. I had come so close to Heaven, tasted Paradise, and yet I let it slip through my fingers.

It would have been a damned lie, I told myself repeatedly as I allowed the tears to flow down my sunken cheeks. She would have been living a lie! I could only repeat this to myself while I tangled my fingers in my hair. Even through my insane ramblings Nadir watched, waiting for me to come to my senses. I would not. How could I? The madness of the evening was dragging me down into the vast wasteland of hell like I had done before to trespassers on my lake. Only this time, the siren was no illusion. Christine was real; she stood in my home and kissed my unmasked face and showed me no fear. I was officially a wreck, much to my and Nadir's misfortune.

Naturally, I had impeccable timing to allow my mind to take leave. The warning alarm in my house was ringing annoyingly loud and time itself was running short. Still, there I sat like a deaf idiot, rocking back and forth in my misery. Nadir, ever the patient bitch of a dog he could be, had finally had enough.

"Erik, they approach. We must leave at once my friend, or face a hundred enemies!" he declared, spreading his arms wide to gather my attention. At that time an angry mob sounded like a dashing good time.

Nadir was growing more impatient with every passing second. "You cannot forfeit your life to them Erik." Life? No, thank you. He knelt before me so I could not avoid his stare. "You did the right thing, my friend. You were honorable in letting her go, she had no life here with you. But you must look to yourself now, Erik! I did not save your life so many years ago to simply throw it at the feat of a crazed pack of wolves. You must come with me, now."

I believe I was still lost somewhere between "did the right thing" and "she had no life here with you" when Nadir grabbed me by the collar and dragged me off the divan. Before I knew it he had me pinned on the floor. "What in the devil do you think you are doing!" I roared.

Nadir held fast. "Is this what you want?" he demanded at the top of his voice. "To be held down and beaten until you have no sense about you, then to have them drag you up top to put you on display? Is that what you want!" I could only stare dumbly at Nadir. His eyes were afire and his voice rang of urgency through heavy breaths. I shook my head. I could no longer take the thought of public exposure and humiliation. Nadir knew I would rather die.

He paused before releasing me of his surprisingly strong grasp. I got up from the floor, having agreed to follow him out of the Opera to his flat. Before we left, I slowly bent down to retrieve my mask and placed it once more on my face. With the mob only yards away from the protective walls of my home, Nadir and I retreated. The only thought I was capable of at that moment was that the mask felt so cold on my cheek.
Christine did not feel that cold…

Upward we traveled, Nadir for once leading me rather than the other way around. I looked, but I did not see. I heard, but I could not listen. My senses were turned upside down and I could only follow the dark figure before me like an obedient child. It had never occurred to me that my state would put me at risk, though perhaps it should have. I was not capable of thought at that time – one could have told me that La Carlotta was God's gift to music and I most likely would have agreed. Sickening, that.

As Nadir and I traveled through some narrow corridors towards the Rue Scribe exit, we were not aware of those behind us. Blindly I followed my Persian friend through the dark, devoid of all feeling and emotion. Only when three men in rather dirty clothing leapt out in front of us did I begin to care about our situation. Nadir and I came to an abrupt halt and began to turn around when I met up with a butt-end of a rifle that did not agree particularly well with my face.

Backward I fell and my head met the stone with devastating force as three brutes descended upon me. The bastards kicked me several times and I daresay one brandished a club of some sort – a crude weapon that only left an incomplete mess in its wake. I vaguely remember Nadir shouting something as he was dragged off back toward where we had come. My captors tied my hands behind my back and wrenched my arms so badly I felt as if they had stabbed me in the shoulders. This was not going particularly well.

"We have him!" they cried. How idiots such as these could survive in every day society I would never know. It all seemed terribly unfair. I scoffed at their absurd display, the conquering heroes of nothing but a man with a broken heart. Like three of the same mind they all turned to me. "The only thing funny I see here is a freak," one decreed. Clearly, sir, you had not looked in a mirror recently either. Or bathed, for that matter. My mouth twitched in a sarcastic grin. "What in the hell do you think you're grinnin' at?" the short, round one demanded. I leaned forward against the two holding me back and smiled defiantly at him and said, "You."

That was apparently terribly rude of me. No surprise there, naturally. My tongue can be as offensive as my face and I take no shame in that most times. However, it seems that mocking stupid, illiterate men with rifles only gets one into trouble.

I woke several hours later with a throbbing headache that threatened to tear my skull apart. What's worse was that I hadn't been drinking. Absently I reached up to my face with my right hand and was quite disturbed at what I did not find. No mask. But I did find a great deal of blood from a wound on my forehead, trickling down my face and neck, and soaking my collar. I sighed and allowed my hand to fall against the cold stone floor.

I admit I did not expect lavish furnishings, but I was also far from prepared from the reality I was now thrust into. My eyes shot open and I lay there for several minutes attempting to keep my breathing as normal as possible. I then closed my eyes and tried to remove myself mentally from the mire I found myself in. Please God, no…I repeated silently. I did not even need to turn around to see the bars that imprisoned me – I could see them perfectly well in my mind.

Immediately the old claustrophobic sensation came over me and my throat tightened. I covered my face with my hands, wishing away the crushing force that was surrounding me. Memories that I had long thought dead had come rushing back to me, strangling me with their weight. I could not bear it!

How quickly one can lose all composure. I lay there, still on the outside, but screaming inwardly. In the confines of the cell I was rendered completely useless – if man wanted a weapon to control me with, cold iron bars were torturously effective. I could not breathe, think, or even turn to confirm their presence.

"Of all the things, Monsieur, not a cell," implored a voice in the adjoining room. I knew that voice. Nadir had come and appeared to be pleading my case. "In God's name why not?" asked another man, who was obviously taking my dear friend for a fool. There was a long pause, and when Nadir spoke, his words were like ice: "You could not possibly understand."

Indeed not. One could not truly appreciate the horrors of confinement until it first controlled your life and then destroyed it.

I reached out my right hand until I felt the wall and kept my left hand to cover my eyes. It seemed like an eternity of silence before I heard a welcome voice. "Erik," Nadir called from the other side of the bars. "Allah…Erik, Erik! How are you faring?" Splendidly. The accommodations are quite cozy, the view spectacular, and I daresay the free wine tasting was an especially nice touch. I groaned.

"He will be held here until sentencing," muttered another. The odor of cigars was overwhelming and his voice suffered for it.

"How soon will that be?" asked a third. I very nearly dashed my head against the floor. Why in God's name was le Vicomte de Chagny here?

"Long enough." The gendarme left, and there was a pause before de Chagny spoke once more. "Christine wishes to speak with you, Monsieur. As much as I would care to forbid it, she will not be silenced on the issue." I made no attempt to acknowledge his words and remained still. He and Nadir must have exchanged glances behind my back.

"Erik, did you hear Monsieur le Vicomte?" asked Nadir, concerned. I absently waived my right hand.

"What did you do to him?" de Chagny demanded of the gendarmes on duty. "We did nothing, Monsieur," they defended. "He has hardly moved to face front."

Nadir muttered something in Persian as de Chagny turned once more to my cell. "I know why you do not face the bars, Monsieur," he began. Fuck you, I thought. Useless dandies such as yourself have no possible grasp on suffering. He continued, "I shall bring Mademoiselle Daae by tomorrow evening for only a moment. The gendarmes will escort you out of the cell to see her and you will be on best behavior or there will be Hell to pay, by God."

His words meant nothing to me. I was already in Hell.

All the following day it was a non-stop parade of curious stares and malicious comments. I sat patiently on the cot facing the opposite wall, the horror of my face turned away from prying eyes and away from the bars that wanted to plunge a thousand daggers into what was left of my soul. Gendarmes watched me intently, mocking my capture and adding their terribly unoriginal insults. Nadir spent several hours pacing up and down the hall between my own special place in Hell and the commander's office, shooting menacing glances at those attempting to provoke me.

I'm sure Nadir was astounded by my quiet façade. I was not the only target to the cruel jokes, however.

"What kind of man associates himself with a monster?" mocked one Gendarme, painfully devoid of any real occupation. "How loyal you are to the fiend," noted another. "They must be lovers! What, is sodomy a choice pastime where you come from? Is 'it' even a man?" they asked, poking at Nadir. He simply stood there without even blinking at the remarks that made my blood boil. Before he was forcefully removed from the building, he sat solemnly on the outside of my cell, alone, hanging his head. "Go home, friend," I muttered in Persian. "There is nothing more you can do here."

"I've done nothing. They will no longer hear me, Erik."

"That is to be expected."

"I fear what they will do to you and what they have already done," he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

I finally sat up and looked at him, forcing myself to see past the bars. "None of this has been your fault. Their justice contains no more suffering than I have placed upon others. Go home, Nadir. And thank you."

He looked at me with an expression somewhere between pity and grief. "I will not abandon you now."

Moments later he was dragged away, cursing in his Persian tongue. It was now dark outside and the building was dead quiet. I expected Christine and the Vicomte's arrival soon, but was unaware of the actual time. My mind was still quite blank due to the blows to my head and the despairing atmosphere surrounding me, and it was several moments before I noticed the four gendarmes outside my cell. Two had removed their uniform coats and were in their shirtsleeves. They were joined by two plain clothed men who looked vaguely familiar to those to I had encountered below the Opera. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach, and I knew this had nothing to do with Christine's visit.

Splendid. Because, of course, there was nothing I loved more than another group of angry men wanting nothing more than to tear me apart. I was rather thankful they left the pitchforks and torches home, though. Best not to fall into a typical stereotype when it can be avoided.

They dragged me from the cell with a blindfold, a knife to my throat, and rifle trained on me. The smell of liquor stung; I could have easily overtaken them under normal circumstances given my talent as a cold, efficient murderer, but nothing else was in my favor that night. I was concussed, managing a broken rib and what's more, I was without my trusted Punjab lasso or any weapon whatsoever. This evening was going especially badly.

They took me to the side alley, which was dark and wet with the recent rain storm. I was struck once more in the back of the head and forced to my knees. The bastards removed the blindfold and I found myself in the middle of a circle of six mean, each itching to have a shot at the Opera Ghost. How delightful. I sneered.

They took their turns mocking me once more, focusing their time on my disfigurement and no, I suppose it was mainly on that. It was then I decided that the human race needs to invent some fresh insults. All were annoying, but one in particular angered me to a dangerous level. He should have known to keep his mouth quiet, for provoking one such as myself has proven ill for the health of many men.

"You, we should sell you to the circus, that is what we should do!" shouted the fat gendarme. "Put you in the freak show where you belong!" He seemed genuinely thrilled with himself over this last statement, completely unaware that my patience had run out. A swift calm came over me and quickly I made my move. In one blink of an eye I had found my feet and snapped the pig's neck, allowing him to fall to the ground like a worthless sack of dirt.

For a moment the others stood in horror, unbelieving of the lethality of my movement. Two descended upon me and I daresay I killed another by breaking his neck without thinking. As I turned to address the other, I felt an overcoming, sharp sensation in my right side. It was the stinging feeling of a knife, both hot and cold at the same time, and uniquely familiar to me. I leaned into him and we went back against the alley wall. I cringed, pulled the dagger from my ribs and plunged it into his throat.

Two of the men had fled like dogs from the alley, leaving one staring dumbfounded at the scene of death before him. He looked at me wide-eyed, fear dripping from his expression as he raised his pistol. I retrieved the dagger and threw it deftly at him, but unfortunately he got a shot off as I threw. As my target fell to the ground, knife protruding ominously from his back, I was struck in the right shoulder and fell back against the wall.

I stood there for several seconds against the wall, my left hand pressed against my wounded shoulder and the knife wound stinging horribly. I could feel the hot rush of blood down my skin as it soaked my fine clothing. I knew I had to find refuge somewhere. Immediately I thought of Nadir's flat, but it was across the city there was no possible way I could manage to travel that far. I did not trust the false darkness of the alley and so I began moving toward the place I had called home for so many years – the Opera.

Author's Notes:

Uh oh. I hope everyone loves a good wounded!Erik, because pain and suffering always equals a good time...

geckogirl - I saw your review of the Prologue and would just like to address a couple of notes. Don't worry, I'm not offended, but do take a closer look at the first chapter. Read a bit more carefully, the language can be tricky. It does not, at any time, switch from the first person. It is a very descriptive look from Erik's POV. You'll note there was a mention at the top of the chapter stating it was Erik speaking, and that never changed. Thank you for your comments and have fun at camp!

Thank you again for reading. Please read/review and let me know what you think!