A/N As you've seen this story alternates between Paris 1870 and India 1855. In 1855 Erik was not yet deformed in any way (other than maybe mentally since he's obsessive). This story is going to attempt to explain what happened after Persia but before going back to Paris. You'll see the past fleshed out and the present (with the Goddess) bringing reminders of what he was as a man of 20 dangerously flirting with a rich man's promised daughter, amongst other things.

Ch 3

The Goddess tugged at the cravat as she sat on Erik's knee and teased his every want. She brushed her wrist under his nose, touching his lips as her thumb passed over his flesh. He closed his eyes to the smell, to the warmth of her caress. His lips parted, tongue lingering between his opened mouth. The moment he leaned forward she drew back.

"It's been three weeks since you came to me," she whispered in his ear. "Where have you been, my love?"

Erik turned his face away from her. He had never undressed before her. He had never asked her to remove her clothes either. A month had passed since the opera fire, a long month of scrounging for food and clothing, of trying in vain to remain warm, dry, and bathed. He had gone back to the opera house when living on the street had become too dangerous. He had returned to an existence of a carcass living in an empty shell.

The cravat came away in her fingers and his neck was exposed. The warmth of the fabric was replaced by the heat of her breath. She tempted him to the point of madness.

"Not going to tell me where you've been? What women you've bedded?"

The Goddess moved her hands down his opened shirt and parted the fabric further and ran her fingers through the dark hair. She watched his chest rise and fall, felt his heart pounding against her palm. He was on the brink of life and death. Desire had blindfolded him and bound his hands. Rejection had shoved him to the edge. Her voice could push him over or drag him back to safety.

"Have you been with a woman before?" she asked.

His answer was nothing more than a swallow.

"I know her name already, this woman I replace. The dancer, the singer you wanted to make your own—"

He stood up abruptly and tossed The Goddess to the ground. "Don't you dare say her name!" Erik said through his teeth. He hovered over her, fists clenched and wild-eyed.

The Goddess laid back, legs sprawled apart so that her skirt showed the outline of her thighs, hair tousled and masking her almond-shaped eyes. She smiled slightly as she sat up and crossed her legs. Her fingers ran along her lower lip where his hand had swiped her in the face. It had not been intentional. She knew he had not meant to strike her in the face, not when his own face was such a disaster.

"You've bruised me, Erik. Apologize at once."

The beauty laid out on the dirty floor was too much to bear. He hadn't meant to hurt her. She was too beautiful, too fragile to be treated in such a way. She was a goddess. His Goddess Noir, the woman of the night.

"I'm sorry." His voice trembled, a deep rumble of panic and regret.

She spread her legs wider against the simple skirt. "Sincerity, Erik, you're lacking sincerity."

"I didn't mean it. Don't make me leave. All I wanted to do was hear you sing," he whispered as he turned away. "All I want is your voice."

A month ago as he hid in the bordello he had heard a voice from a window. He was hungry and cold, drawn to the promise of sound, of beautiful sound that healed the innermost wounds.

He had only come to her for music. Over and over he promised her as they walked down the darkened streets, splashing through puddles and past vagrants asleep against buildings. The only companion he had known for fifteen years was music. The only lady to stay with such a monster danced on notes, skipped across the page and pirouetted through his mind. Nothing more. There was to be nothing more for the rest of his dreaded life. He had promised a whore that he wouldn't touch her. Nothing was more lowly than guaranteeing a whore she would be safe in his company.

"Only my voice?"

"Yes."

"And shelter from the night I suspect. Did you see the snow? It does not snow in Calcutta. Or Dareesh. Have you heard of Dareesh? There is a lovely palace there."

"Please let me stay with you. You're the only thing I have left," he said under his breath. His back slid down the wall and he stared blankly across the empty room. The need to vomit swirled through his belly despite not eating for days.

On hands and knees The Goddess slunk across the floor. She moved toward the lamp by the bedside and turned it down, draping the room in darkness.

"The only thing you have left," The Goddess sighed. "How very flattering."

"Don't mock me," he whispered.

She made her way towards Erik, the gold bangles on her wrists and the cymbals clanking the wooden floorboards giving away her location. "And tell me, Erik…Phantom….for I have forgotten the moment. When have you had me?"

A small sob left his mouth.

"By the size of your nose I would not remember it. Of course with the mask I cannot see all of it but you do not seem very…well endowed. So many men come to pay me homage; so many men with decent noses come to my bed."

"Stop it," he pleaded. "You don't know what I've been through; you don't know how I've lived, how I've suffered. Suffered!"

The casual smirk remained on her painted lips."Then tell me. Tell me everything and start with the girl you love. Christine, isn't it?"

"Yes," he whispered. He shook his head and began to sob again. "No."

Hands to his face, Erik crawled into hiding on the other side of the bed and wept for what he had lost and for what he would never have.