Child of Music

Part 1

Author's Note: I have always thought writing serious Phanfic was a little stupid, and that nothing could ever match the wonder of the real story. But this idea refused to leave my mind. If you find any inaccuracies, or have any kind of comment or criticism, please review.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or places from 'The Phantom of the Opera'.

He had been called many strange things in his lifetime. Phantom, Opera Ghost. Devil's Child, Spawn of Satan. Even Angel. But he had never believed he was anything more than a mortal man. But now, that belief seemed suspect. The years passed, he knew, but he changed little. He wasn't sure of how much time had gone by since the Opera Populaire was closed for good. But he sensed the passage of the years acutely enough to know he should have looked significantly older than he did.

Erik sighed and turned away from the mannequin he had painstakingly created to perfectly capture Christine. When he had heard the news of her death, it broke his heart all over again. Even if she was not with him, it had given him some happiness to know that she was still living and laughing somewhere. But even that small comfort was gone now. She was dead. He had left her one final rose, returning her ring to her. Though he would have dearly liked to keep it, what use did he have for such a thing? It seemed the right thing to do.

Striding over to his organ, he ran his fingers lightly over the now dusty keys. The spark to compose had blown out when Christine left. Was it really true he had not played since the day she left? His fingers ached to go through the familiar patterns he had created on this organ, but he resisted. It seemed sacrilegious. Christine was his joy, his inspiration. When they sang together, it was magic. They combined totally, voices and spirits as one. That would never happen again. He had no reason to make music.

A small whimper interrupted his reminiscing. He ignored it. It would not be the first time he heard sounds that did not exist outside his mind. But it was followed by another muffled cry, and then another. He rose from the bench, eyes narrowed. After all these years, all the stories, someone still dared to intrude in his domain. Why couldn't the world leave him to his misery?

He picked up his mask off one of the "heads" he had pilfered from the costumers and fitted it gently onto his face. That annoying little dancer girl had stolen one of his masks, but he had plenty in reserve. He would never be without something that could hide his face from the cruel world. Making his way along one of the rocky passages that would take him to the lobby of the Opera, he fumed. It wasn't enough that he had been forced beneath the ground and out of the world of humans; he was still being disturbed. Had he not send a perfectly clear message in the final days of the Opera Populaire that he was not to be trifled with?

He reached the lobby. It was filthy, full of dust and grime. It had been almost completely stripped of anything of value. That dreadful auction he had heard taking place above his dwelling. It was never enough for people, it seemed. It didn't matter how much they had, they always wanted to take more. It disgusted him.

He scanned the room for what or who had brought him out of the cavernous cellars, back into a world he had no wish to see again. Just when he had given up, another whimper, almost inaudible. He prowled slowly closer to where the sound seemed to have come from. There was a large beam on the ground where it had fallen from the ceiling. He peered over it and discovered something he had not expected.

He wasn't sure what he had thought he might find, but it was certainly not this. Not a small girl with reddish hair and pale cheeks, eyes half closed. Her leg was partially pinned by the massive piece of rotten wood. She wore a neat little dress which was becoming dirty lying in the filth of the abandoned opera house. Another choked sob escaped her lips as he watched in confusion.

She was lucky the entire beam hadn't fallen on top of her, he thought as he began to pry chunks of wood away from her. If it had, she would have been completely crushed, no chance of survival. But even this way, the fates did not seem to be smiling on her. She was so pale, he marveled as took a moment to feel her tiny cheek. He knew that by no means did he have a healthy looking complexion. But he had not seen the sun in countless years. Her lack of color had been caused entirely by her pain and illness. He wasn't sure why, but his heart was pounding very hard against his chest.

There was no reason for him to worry about this child he had never met. In fact, there was no reason for him to help her. So what if she died? It was only one less person who would grow up and torment him. But even as his mind reached this dire conclusion, his hands continued to frantically work at freeing her.

Finally, he succeeded in breaking off all that was holding her down. Bending down, he scooped her into his arms. She was so light. He knew he was very strong, but lifting this girl was no more than carrying a pillow from his bed. He was not an expert on children, but he knew enough to be sure that was not a good sign. Not even considering the implications of what he was doing, he started back down to his caverns.

Halfway on the trip, her eyes fluttered open. He would not have even noticed, except he felt a gentle brushing against his chest, and he looked down. Her bleary eyes met his and she reached a shaking hand up towards his mask. Reflexively, he drew his head back, out of her reach. Her arm fell limply back to her side. He cursed silently at himself. If she did not live…he didn't know what he would do. A tiny little slip of a thing that he had not even known existed until an hour ago had taken over his thoughts and heart. He needed her to survive. He was not sure why. But it really did not matter. What mattered was that he saved this girl from a very early death. And as they neared his subterranean home, subconsciously, he held her very close.