AN: WELCOME! This is my attempt at a weekly updated fic. This an attempt at combing Phantom and Phantom of the Opera, along with exploring the idea that Erik may have met some strange bedfellows in his early travels around the world before settling down beneath the Palais Garnier. If this were to occur in his formative years still, it would shed some light on the actions that later take place in the events of Phantom of the Opera. I plan on this being T, but the rating *may* change.

The moon illuminated the night, casting shadows everywhere, even in the dark. As he stared up at the stars, Erik wished they could hypnotize him away from everything. They were dimmer tonight, perhaps because of the waxing moon. Everything was a deep shade of blue, and the shifting sway of the plodding horse made it akin to a voyage. Without propping himself up, Erik turned his head to spy on the driver of the caravan. The driver was lost in his own thoughts, unaware of the stowaway who rested on top of his wagon. Erik wished to keep it that way.

A silent sigh lifted from his scant lips. There were no clouds, too cold for crickets, a very still night that seemed to suffocate him. She died on a night just like this one and he left the only father he ever knew. In an instant, his carefully constructed world crumbled down and he had to flee.

Erik pressed himself against the roof of the caravan some more. He longed to clutch at the tightness of his chest and rip out the heart that betrayed him for caring. A year had already gone by, but the resolute look on Giovanni's face and how he destroyed his precious daughter with the sight of his ghastly visage-!

The tears threatened and Erik blinked and willed them away rapidly. How uncomfortable crying in a mask made him. The fluid that oozed from the gaping hole in his face, trickling down into his cleft mouth made it all the worse. He would need to remove it to prevent any rashes or irritation. He lifted the black face mask off of his chin and lips ever so slightly, tipping it towards his head. The chilled air was a welcome relief and instantly dried up his tears. He had to think and think carefully. Where was he headed?

His first instinct was to get as far away from Rome as possible, to leave everything in his past behind him. Traveling west had no promise for him. He had to move east.

'The frozen wasteland of Siberia ought to do,' Erik pondered. A miserable world of white darkness seemed appropriate, though he would need to vary his wardrobe. At the very least, he ought to have more than one outfit.

He traveled lightly, the only thing he carried that was not strategically placed on his person was his violin case with the precious cargo inside. After staying with Giovanni, he regrew a tiny voice of a conscience, so he wanted to earn money the best way he knew how. Pickpocketing could only go so far, and his music soothed his warring soul.

Lost in the thought of how a white fur cape would look upon his lanky frame, the swaying of the wagon ceased. Erik froze in the stillness. He lay deathly still, not daring to breathe, hoping the driver hadn't noticed something amiss.

The creak of the wooden seat and the shifting of weight off of the caravan told Erik otherwise. Dirt and pebbles crunched under heavy footfalls, and the door at the back of the wooden caravan opened. Erik tried to follow the man in his mind's eye, imagining every movement and willing him not to look at the roof.

A minute had gone by and all that Erik could hear was silence. His mouth opened slightly to allow a delicate exhalation. His heartbeat thrummed, and he willed himself to calm down, lest his coursing blood make his ever-growing lanky limbs twitch and betray his position.

Finally, some grumbling from the driver, a quick shut of the door, and the whole wagon leaned to one side as he situated himself back up front. The horse snorted indignantly as its reigns were whipped and a clicking tongue told it to start walking again.

'What possibly could have been so necessary to-' The hissing of a match struck the quiet, sulfur and an acrid aroma perfumed the air. 'Ah. Tobacco,' Erik relaxed his shoulders, which he unknowingly tensed. 'Such a vulgar vice… and it ruins your voice.' He rolled his eyes with superiority, as if he would even indulge in such activities.

He inched the fingers of his left hand toward his violin case as the steady swaying resumed. His bony finger-tips brushed against the familiar wood and he seemed to sink against the roof. Ah… one of the few comforts he ever had. Fatigue pressed against his eyes. The rhythmic plodding of the horse, the back and forth sway of the wagon, and the chill night beckoned to rest. Erik let his eyes drift shut as his vision grew hazy, and as he rocked gently, he let his mind go black.

His eyes snapped open when he realized his folly. The wagon still rocked, the horse still plodded, and it was still night. He searched for the moon frantically with yellow eyes. It had felt like a few minutes had passed, but evidently that was not the case. The moon no longer hung where it did moments before. Erik craned his neck to look behind him, toward the driver, to find it much further away than he intended. He cursed at himself silently.

He knew better than to fall asleep in an unsafe place. Not that any place he found was particularly safe. His thoughts once again drifted to the cozy basement where he could lock himself up and burrow away into his arts. He jerked those painful thoughts away again and squinted toward the horizon.

A village was in sight, though no warm glows of hearths welcomed the travelers. The night was too late for that- everyone was secure in their own shelters. Peculiarly, the village seemed cast in shadow, darker than the surrounding blue haze of night. The moon's cool beams provided only enough light to cast an outline of the village. Erik gazed back up at the night sky and then back to the steadily approaching village. The little caravan should make it there by morning.

Passing through a clearing, Erik noticed a particularly gnarled oak tree. The ancient wood was too heavy to support itself and it was almost horizontal. Its yawning boughs reached out like spindly hands. The other side of the oak had roots uplifted by the sheer mass of the rest of the tree. The stubborn tree was still cemented downward. Carved crudely in its trunk were several languages etched from different hands, all with the same message: Strangers turn back.

Erik rolled his eyes. In any other moment, he would have sighed with exasperation, but that would provide too much noise.

'Imbecilic country folk. Another superstition to keep out foreigners, I assume.'

He swept his arm underneath his neck as a pillow and used his left hand to compose a song against his leg, reading the stars as music notes. Maybe there would be a piano, or preferably, a church organ which he could haunt and listen to his new composition. Gazing at the stars, a small bat streaked across the sky. Its squeaks pierced the night air as clawed feet latched onto a moth.

"Prikaza!" Gasped the driver, crossing himself against the misfortune. Erik knew the Romani language well and frowned in his confusion.

'What is bad luck?'

A quick slap of leather on flesh cracked ahead of Erik, and the horse gave a whinny of distress. The wagon lurched forward, gaining more momentum and speed. The driver began to mumble to himself, his muttering smattered with curses in between. He and the horse gave off an air of unease.

Erik settled back to trying to compose the stars, trying to ignore the foreboding pit in his gut. The driver banged his fist against his seat repeatedly. The knocking swayed the entire vehicle. Erik felt himself slip to the side of the roof and quickly braced himself against it. Another pungent aroma reached his nostrils, a result of the banging from up front.

'Garlic?'

The stinking rose perfumed the air around Erik and the rocking made him begin to feel ill. He clutched at his face, with his eyes shut, wondering when this torture would end.

'I could just take his wagon…' Erik pondered casually, 'frighten this man, take his caravan, ride off to the next town at my own pace.' Erik had stolen many things in his short life without a second thought. 'To steal this would be easy. No one's around,' he reasoned. A flash of his time in Italy gripped his heart. 'What would he think? If he knew I stole another man's home?'

The word "Sir" played on his lips as he stared back at the stars. The pain was too great. He couldn't do it. He'd have to find a new little hovel or hole to burrow himself in when they came to the village.

It would have to wait until dawn.