The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Lereux. Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote the fantastic musical. Susan Kay wrote a novel which made me cry. The Gargoyles belong to the Almighty Mouse. I don't own anything except the idea for this story.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This is a Crossover. I also play with the thought that Christine was right to assume Erik was an angel. At least from a certain point of view. What if she saw him and that was the reason she believed her fairytales. What if there was another reason than his face to keep him from going out in the sun.
by
Delilah Draken
"You alone can make my song take flight. It's over now the Music of the Night."
It hurt to let her go, but it had to be done. She would have never been happy with him. That he knew for sure. She needed the sun and all the light of the world. She needed a happy life. He couldn't give her that. The only thing he could give her was fame. Fame and everlasting darkness.
Tears were streaming down his face while he watched her go. She would never return. And if she did anyway - though he doubted her fiancé allowing it - she would only find his long dead body. The bloodthirsty mob would make sure of it. But he didn't want to die. He only wanted her to think him dead.
He said a last goodbye to his beloved sanctuary, his one creation of beauty and left. The tunnels were full of angry stagehands, actors and dancers, so the only way out was the lake.
The lake was full of mist Nothing unusual for a day in January. But strange was the boat lying on the shore. It looked the same as his own boat. If it were not for his love taking the boat to the lake's other side it wouldn't have got his attention. But there was no time to think about it. He had a mob to escape.
It took longer than usual to cross the lake. Stars were illuminating the night. The fog faded and revealed a forest. What happened? The lake has no direct connection to the park. He was surprised. But not much. How he managed to leave the catacombs of the opera he would know in no time. Mysteries were his speciality.
The wind blew a newspaper to him. New York City. Manhattan, to be precise. Well, that is interesting. From Paris to New York in under one hour. January 2002. WHAT? Impossible. You can't travel through time. At least not in a slow boat. Although there was always the possibility of magic. For obvious reasons he believed in these arts.
He was contemplating the chances of him travelling through a portal of magic as he was attacked. He wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. That was the only explanation to his lack of ability to defend himself. That was the only reason for his need of a rescue. A rescue coming from the heavens like an avenging angel. An lavender angel with long black hair. No. That can't be. I'm the only...
Everything went black.
"Where do you think he came from?"
"I don't know, Lexington. But I am sure there aren't any of our kind in France anymore."
Voices were waking him. Loud voices.
"Look at his hands. If it were not for the feathers, he could go as a human."
"Perhaps he is a hybrid. Is it possible for you to interbreed?"
"I don't think so, Xanatos. Though he is fragile..."
Who do I have to kill before I can get some peaceful sleep?