A/N: Thank you for all the reviews. I like to get my stories started with a lot of chapters up at the same time so that people have chance to get to know my style and the characters.

The M rating relates to what will be happening later in the story. I put the M rating up straight away because I feel it unfair to allow younger audiences to read a story and then change the rating half way through.

The prologue is obviously very important to the story but for a while you will not find out what is happening... the story will build up to that moment.

I will go through how Erik and Christine met and how their relationship developed... how Raoul became involved but there will be other characters. I intend to write my way through the story we all know but from more of a background perspective of now what happened but how and why it happened.

I must warn you all now this story is going to be long, possibly longer than my last.

Again, I thank you for reading, enjoy the next few chapters and, if you're feeling generous, review.

Chapter 3- Bridge Over Troubled Water

'You shouldn't have,' he said, the sarcastic tint to his tone making Antoinette shake her head. She placed the tray on the table in his small kitchen, threw her coat over the back of a chair and glanced at him.

He was sitting on a wall that edged the lake with his knees tucked up and his arms wrapped around them. He flashed her his best bored look and then turned his attention back to the water.

'He's insufferable,' Nadir said, entering the room with a cup of water for her. She took it from him, placed it to her lips and sipped slowly. Everything seemed so much colder down here, she thought, as she placed the cup next to her tray.

Erik scowled at his friend. 'Well, you know what you can do, don't you?'

'Now, now,' Nadir said, scolding him. 'There's no need for that,'

Erik said nothing as he let his bare foot fall from the wall and dip into the lake. The cold never bothered him.

'Look, Erik,' Antoinette said. 'I brought you some food...'

She carried one of the plates over to him and held it out, letting the smell of warm meat pie waft under his nose. He turned his face away.

'I'm not hungry,' he said simply.

She rolled her eyes, couldn't help it. 'You never are,' she said and placed the plate on the wall next to him.

'He's been like it all day,' Nadir said, as he stood next to her.

'It would help if you didn't talk about me as if I wasn't here,' Erik said, looking down at the plate by his foot.

'Cheer up,' Antoinette said, knowing it was a foolish statement but also knowing that Erik would not mock her. He just stared coolly.

She shook her head and turned to Nadir. 'What time did you get here?' she asked.

'Over an hour ago,' he said,

'And he's been like this since then?'

He nodded.

'You're doing it again,' Erik growled, a glint of anger in his blue eyes.

'Well, perhaps we wouldn't if you could hold a civil conversation,' Nadir said.

Erik rolled his eyes. 'There is nothing civil about you Persian, so why would I speak civilly to you?'

'Erik,' Antoinette said softly.

'What?' he snapped. 'Just what do you want, why are you here?'

'I brought you something to eat, I thought you would appreciate it,' she said, surprised by his aggression towards her. It was completely out of character. Not that it was out of character for him to be moody or aggressive, just that it was out of character for him to direct it at her.

'Well, I'm not hungry,' he said. 'Just go,'

Nadir shrugged, lifting his jacket from the back of the seat and began to
walk out.

'You can eat the pie,' Antoinette said to Nadir. He turned and smiled.

'No, leave it for El Groucho,' he said grinning. 'He'll come around.' And with that he let the door clunk shut behind him, causing the sound echo around the walls.

Antoinette walked to Erik, now finally alone, and wrapped her arms around him gently. 'What's wrong?' she asked, stroking his hair. She worried that she mothered him a little too much, she had done ever since they met, but she simply could not help it, he had been through so much.

He shrugged her off, he was never one for hugs and she had mostly expected it. 'Nothing,' he said.

'Erik,'

He let his eyes grow dark. He had a way of doing that, allowing his eyes to mist with blackness, so many shades of blue that if you knew him then one look at his eyes would tell you his mood.

'I baked you a cake,' she said softly. He turned to look at the last tray sitting, solitary, on the table. The white of his mask caught a glimpse of light and shone in her eyes.

'What for?' he asked, swinging his legs around so that he was facing her.

'Your birthday,'

'Huh,' he snorted. 'Happy birthday, Erik,'

'Don't be like that,' Antoinette pleaded. 'It's supposed to be a happy day... you're not usually this bad,'

His eyes fixed her with an icy stare that almost made her shiver. She found herself taking an uncharacteristically cautious step away from him.

'I am twenty five years old,' he said slowly, eyes focused intently on Antoinette's face. 'And I am trapped in these walls, with this mask hiding this face...' he pointed to the white that permanently adorned the right side of his face. It was a sharp and bright ceramic, held to his face by gum and almost invisible ties that he hid under always slightly too long hair.

'And you... you have no time for me anymore,' he growled. 'You have your husband, your daughter and your precious new job,'

His tone was so harsh she felt it would shake the walls, bringing them down. Erik never shouted, rarely even raised his voice any louder than usual, but he could make it menacing. Who needed to shout when they had a voice as powerful as his?

Erik was right of course, she spent most of her time with her husband Scott Giry and her twelve year old daughter Meg. He was right but he was also so wrong. Erik was never far from Antoinette's thoughts. She loved him dearly, she wanted to help him so much, she wished she could take him out of his shell. It was no use though.

She had been one of the few who knew him now, who had seen his face. As much as she loved him she admitted that the right side, the side he hid so defiantly, was horrific. Not long after she had helped him escape from his tormentors he had confided to her that it was a defect of birth, the mottled and pock marked flesh, the red and raw skin, the gap under his eye that made him look almost hollow.

His mother had abandoned him.

When she looked at him now she barely even thought of the right side of his face, the mask was simply a part of him. It was hard to imagine, looking at the smooth line of his jaw and the soft curve of his cheekbone, that under the mask, the right side of his face was more disfigured than anything she had ever seen.

It was not as though he never left his home in the cellars of the Opera Populair. He had been out many times, he had travelled with Nadir and often went for walks in the dusk but Antoinette thought she understood.

He was lonely.

Erik, the proud and intelligent man he was, would never admit to this, not to anyone. She saw it though, in the sadness radiating from his eyes.

'I'm sorry,' was all she could murmur as she looked at him. His sharp blue eyes suddenly softened, and he looked away quickly. 'What can I do?' she asked.

'Nothing,' he said quietly. 'There's nothing you can do,'

'I will come more often,' she said.

'You have commitments,' he countered. 'I understand that.'

She sighed. 'I could make more time,'

'Don't,' he snapped. She paused, unsure what to do. He glanced over his shoulder at her. 'I will only bring you down,'

'That's not true,' she said softly, resisting every nerve in her body, every single one, that told her to reach out for him.

He jumped from the wall and brushed past her.

'Nadir visits,'

'Nadir is a fool,'

'He's a good man, Erik,'

Erik huffed and sat at his piano stool.

'You know he is,'

'He has met a woman himself you know?' Erik said, looking into the distance.

'He didn't say anything,' she said, heartened slightly by the thought of the small Persian befriending someone who would love him.

'And then there was me...' Erik whispered.

'No one is deserting you,' Antoinette said.

'I never said that you were,' he snapped.

'You insinuate it Erik,'

'Then I am wrong to say what I say,' he said. 'You have every right to your life and so does he...'

He let his voice trail off and silence surrounded them.

'Go home,' he said, staring down at the table top.

'I'd rather stay,'

He glared. 'Go home,'

She stayed still, stuck to the floor, watching him. He didn't look at her, barely moved a muscle.

'I won't tell you again,'

She nodded. 'Fine,' she said, lifting her coat from his table and throwing it onto her body. She turned and began to walk away.

'Don't come here again,' he said. Usually she would have put a comment like this down to his poor temper that day but there was something else. Something in the way he was behaving. Something was not right with him.

'Erik...' she said softly, 'Surely you don't mean that,'

His head shot up and he stared at her. 'Why would I say it if I didn't?'

'I...'

'You've done all you can for me,' he said quietly. 'Don't come by again, there is nothing either of us can do for the other anymore,'

She felt her eyes begin to sting, her chest ached. 'Erik...'

'Go,' he growled.

And so she did, she walked from the room, out of the door and along the long dark corridor to the outside. It was not until she fought her way through his hidden exit that she burst into tears. They came in unstoppable torrents, like the rapids of a storm struck river. Leaning against a tree she let the tears run and run, unsure of how she would stop them anyway.

Never before had she felt so hurt and so alone. Now, she would go back to her kind and generous husband, see her beautiful and talented daughter but all she would think of would be Erik.

The boy she had saved, the teenager she had nurtured and the man she had loved.

Scott Giry was sitting in his chair reading the newspaper. His immediate thought when he read the first page was that there would probably be nothing worth reading. His first impressions were usually right, as they were in this occasion. In a fit of disgust at the lack of talented reporters he threw the newspaper to the side table and pushed himself from his seat. The mirror above the fireplace caught his reflection and he noted the increasing grey in his blonde hair, and wondered if Antoinette, a woman much younger than he, would love him when he was old and completely grey.

He knew that he was not a bad sort, his handsome features had often been the cause of many giggles in young women, but he knew also that he was lucky to have Antoinette. She had not been at all interested in him when they first met, he often thought that this was what endeared her to him at the very beginning. They had met when he was helping to fund a production at the Opera Populair where she was a dancer. He was immediately attracted to her stunning figure and dark hair, found her almost irresistible in fact.

The whole event had taught him many things. He pursued her with much vigour, the vigour of a teenage boy, in fact. He made no secret of his attraction to her, he sent her flowers and chocolates, asked her to take walks with him. She was not interested. He tried harder, flashed her warm smiles whenever they were near each other and whenever he happened to find himself alone with her he would tell her of his wealth.

This, apparently, was his mistake. Antoinette was not in the least bit interested in any of his money or furnishings. She was less interested in the material things than anyone he had ever met. Of course, there had been something else. She was attracted to him, he had known that, but something more held her back.

She had never said so but Scott always suspected that she had been in love with someone else. He even suspected that she still saw him but knew her well enough to know that she would never betray him. Antoinette was a good and strong woman, a woman of many virtues, not least of all her fierce honesty. He loved her for that.

Scott had learned not to be the jealous type in his life and it had served him very well. It had made him good natured with a fair temperament. Business people liked this and he had grown and grown. He traded in anything he could get his hands on and, being a Doctor as well, had amassed quite a wealth from this.

However, nothing made his feel quite as wealthy as his young daughter, Meg. Beautiful, sweet Meg. Her mother had been teaching her to dance and at twelve years old she was now a member of the Opera Populair chorus, under her mother's watchful supervision.

'Scott,'

He turned to face his wife. 'Hello darling,' he said gently, walking to her and placing a kiss on her cheek. 'Is everything alright?'

'Yes,' she nodded but she did not look alright. She looked anything but in fact, she looked upset and dishevelled.

'Are you sure?' he asked, feeling concern swell inside.

'I feel a little tired,' she said quietly, letting herself fall into his arms. 'I'm sure I just need to rest,'

He held her tight. 'Lets get you tucked in then,' he said. 'I will make sure that Diana brings some dinner up to you,'

She nodded.

As they walked up the stairs, she propped herself against him, as if completely fatigued. He could not remember a time when he had seen her look so out of sorts. If she was not better tomorrow, he thought, they would call in the family doctor.