A/N - The only disclaimer I'll have in this story. I don't own any of the POTO characters or concepts. All original stuff IS mine.

This is a prologue to my story Twisted Fate. It picks up two years after the fire, and deals with what happens next.

Please READ and if you read, please review.

Lithe, sinewy muscles ached as slender digits caressed downwards in a firm stroke. The lukewarm water that both were submerged in did little to ease the pain. The curve of that long leg finally lifted, rounded heel finding purchase upon the edge of the porcelain tub. An act of defeat. Only rest, and further strain would ease the discomfort. The girl within the water released a long sigh and allowed her eyes to flutter closed as well. It had been a long day. Training for a new opera was always exhausting, but Emina had been away for some months and her once strong muscles had softened a bit, once released from the tortuous hours of dance. Having just returned, she found preparation both exhilirating and overwhelming. Squirming in the waters, she attempted to drown all worries. The warmth and comforting embrace soon lulled her into reverie, the almost dream-like state inducing memories from the past.

Crimson silk provided little shelter for the small girl who huddled fearfully amongst the litter of pillows and emptied bottles. The tent she had been banished to was dim, and a pungent odor filled the air. The sound of carnival filled the air outdoors, and she could hear people laughing, jeering, and foul profanities from men who had imbibed far too much liquor. Of course, the ever present sound of labored breathing lingered just outside the entrance, an ever-present warning that any attempt to escape would be futile. Dark curls were touseled and disheveled, and her pristine features were marred with bruises. Even the pretty ruby of her lips were swollen from an earlier assault. Scarcely thirteen, the pitiful girl within waited with a certain dread. Finally, her worst dreams were realized for at least the seventh time that night. The sound of coins dropping into a greedy palm preluded the lifting of the flap. A man ducked to enter, the stumble that followed confirming his obvious intoxication. As he pushed up to hands and knees and began to crawl toward her on the pillows, his lips curled into a hungry sneer - and the look in his eyes was enough to make her gasp. Then brilliant orbs of shimmering brown squinted closed, tightly, against the image - replacing them with another. His face. So pitiful and handsome and gruesome all at once.

With a sudden start, Emina sat up quickly, sloshing water out of the tub. It was cool now, and gooseflesh was prominent upon her arms. Her eyes snapped open, and she gasped for air.

"Really, this wasn't entirely part of the deal. You have your own room in which to nap!" Chided a female voice, which had just entered.

Emina glanced up. The auburn-headed beauty who came into vision through teary eyes was obviously not happy.

"We bartered, yes, but only for a bath. Now shoo!" The soprano ushered with some distaste. Emina arose immediately, and reached for a robe hanging nearby. The dream had shaken her, stifling her usual witty reply. Instead, in silence she simply stepped out of the tub.

"Please!" Renee complained, as she turned from Emina. At that, she left the room in a fit of grumbles, the last intelligible words being something about having no shame.

Emina simply shuddered, dried the water from her chilled form, and dressed quickly. Midnight locks still dripped as she reached the door of the lavish suite, reserved of course for the star of the opera. "We're even," her melodious voice chimed, before she stepped out into the hall. Immediately greeting her was the aroma of the evening meal, and the sound of chaos down below. Normally, she dreaded this part of living in the dormitories, but tonight perhaps it would relieve her of the images. Perhaps tonight it would chase away her ghosts.

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Sparkling blue that bordered on an eerie translucence rested upon the recently worn callouses upon his hands. Dirt smudged his fingers and palms, and with cool detachment he viewed it. It had been two years since the Opera above had burned, causing relatively little damage to the caverns below, apart from the obvious looting. His large chair still rested upon the dais, and though the once remarkable velvet that covered it was dirtied and torn in a few places, it still provided quite a bit of comfort. Erik slumped into it with disdain. He had been working to restore his lair to it's original state for weeks now, and it seemed like progress came at a great expense. He had retreated from this place that fateful night, and not returned for many, many months. At first, his visits were short-lived. Glancing about him, there were too many memories. Painful jabs that seemed to prod at a raw, opened wound. He would imagine her stepping from the small gondola, eyes transfixed upon him. Or remember the sweet fragrance that had lingered in his bed for weeks after she had left it. For many months, this torture was too much and he would flee from it. But slowly, the sharp pain became dull, numbing - and eventually, he could scarcely feel should he try. A part of him had died that night, gone with the chocolate curls.

Whatever remained struggled for survival, though, creating a war within himself. Emotion and heart longed to die, but vengeance demanded he live. To repay, to someone, something, the pain and fury he felt. And so he had managed, even as they began to rebuild the Opera inside of Paris (at another location, of course - rumors prevented any restoration of the Opera Populair), to stay within the shadows, teetering upon the brink of madness, until it was safe to return to his hovel for good. And here he was.

A rat scurried across his booted foot, and with a scowl he kicked the creature so hard he could feel the tiny ribs crush. With a splash it landed in the green waters.

"Christine," he tortured himself with her name, little more than a sigh. With that, he lifted himself, and began work again. This place would be as magnificent as it had been once, and when it was - then he would begin to plan his return to the stage of darkness.

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"Emina, please!" The insistent pounding upon her door continued.

"Not right now, Raquel, go away!" She pleaded. Her head pounded and the pillow she gripped atop her face provided no solace. Her best friend continued to rap against the door, and each knock was like a dagger into her mind.

"Oh, alright!" Emina scowled, as she rolled from her small cot and trudged to the door. She swung it open and without even a glance toward her friend, returned to the pillow she was nursing.

"What's the matter with you lately? Since you've returned, you've been so distant? This doesn't have anything to do with a man does it, because you know what..." Raquel droned on, naturally the more talkative of the two. Emina merely held a hand up to silence her, and grumbled.

"No man, Raquel. I just need some privacy." The latter wasn't entirely untrue.

Raquel was smaller than Emina, and more voluptuous. With straight, blonde hair that she usually kept pulled atop her head - she was not unpretty. She invited herself in and nudged the door closed behind her. Settling on the foot of the bed Emina had retreated to, she continued to pry.

"Really then, would you please share with me? I am so worried for you. You never laugh anymore. Are you still frightened about all of that Opera Ghost nonsense? Because the madman is dead, they say." Again, the words flowed without measure from her friend, making Emina wonder what had drawn the two together to begin with.

"Do hush," Emina said roughly, and left it at that.

With a heavy sigh, Raquel relented and simply reached a hand to rest upon the shoulder of her friend. Pale ivory contrasted sharply against the rich bronze of Emina's flesh, a silent reminder that Emina was different.

"I am here if you need me," a more gentle and concerned tone offered. The words were somehow soothing to Emina, and her defenses softened a bit.

"I dream again," she muttered in a voice that was scarcely audible, and in fact there were several moments of silence while Raquel pieced the syllables together in her mind. When she had finally discerned the meaning of the mellifluous little voice, a soft sound of recognition left her.

"Ohhh." And with that, she had little to say for several more moments. Instead, she kneaded the shoulder her hand rested on lightly. What was she to say to Emina? For a while there had been rumors that she was mad. Some had said she claimed to know the Opera Ghost personally, even care for him. Raquel had laughed in scorn at their talk, and strongly defended her friend. But not long after Emina had become sickly, scarcely eating and speaking to no one. When Raquel had pushed her to confide in her, Emina had shared a bit. Nightmares had been plaguing her, of her past, Emina had said - though Raquel wondered if such horrible things could really happen to one person. And they always included him.

"Dr. McGaffey is visiting with Renee about a boil upon her toe," Raquel offered, only realizing that it was comical after she had uttered the words, and elicited a soft laugh from Emina. At any rate, though she had not intended it, she was glad to see a slight smile on her friends face. She continued..".. And I'm sure he'd have time to speak with you a moment, if you thought..."

Emina simply groaned her disdain and sat up. She had little sleep and was too exhausted to argue the point thoroughly.

"Raquel, really. Dreams are little to concern the good doctor with. Besides, it would simply fuel the fires - half of the cast think I'm mad as it stands. No, I think this is a problem I shall have to solve myself." The last few words dropped heavily with a note of finality that made the smaller Raquel shudder at their seriousness.

"What was your dream?" She posed so softly, that Emina consented to share.

"I was ten," she began, dropping cloudy eyes to the pillow that delicate fingers toyed with. "It was when I still lived with the man who called himself my father.."

The thick, musky odor of hay filled her nostrils, and the same girl in her previous dream (only younger) held her breath against the tickling effect it had upon her nose. To sneeze now would be most perilous, and so she bit her lip and clenched tiny fingers around the gift she had brought. Brown eyes squinted, peering out between the crevice made betwixt the two bales of hay she had chosen to hide behind. The light was dim, as it was late and only one lap was still aflame. Ahead she could see the large cage and the two figures huddled in it. The thin boy was silent, as the large, disgusting beast who crouched over him cursed at him and brought the whip down upon his bare back until blood was visible. In the dream, his words were blurred and Emina could not remember what the man was trying to convince the boy to do, probably some silly parlor trick. The beating continued until Emina's body shook with silent sobs. Tears streamed down her dirty face, leaving a trail of clean, pretty flesh behind. When the man had beaten the boy until he moved no longer, his face still in the hay, his drunken anger had been satisfied. He spat down upon the bloody back and then stumbled out, scarcely remembering to lock the steel door behind. Emina waited for many moments after, perhaps an hour, until silence seemed to consume the small camp. She lifted her skirts and attempted to tip-toe around the hay as quietly as possible. The boy did not move. The gift in her hands was nearly forgotten as she reached the bars nearest him, and dropped to her knees.

"Boy," she cooed in her softest voice, hoping not to anger him. He did not move. Her heart began to beat more quickly, as she feared he was dead.

"Please," she pleaded softly, more to any gods that might hear her than to him, a soft prayer formed in the simple whisper.

Finally he stirred, pushing up onto hands and knees with a groan. For a moment, she could see his face. The good side was towards her, and even as a child he held a remarkable appeal. Though young, the structure of his bones and the brilliance of his eyes were enthralling. Emina began to smile, and then his head lifted that he may look at her. Their eyes met, and then hers dropped to the side of his face that had been hidden by shadows. It was horribly disfigured, and for a moment, frightened the small girl. She swallowed the lump that had formed within her throat, gathered all of her courage, and lifted her gaze to his again.

"Are you.. hungry?" she murmured, and the spell was broken. Quickly he skittered to the corner furthest from her and donned the dirty sack that had been formed into a sort of mask.

"Please! Don't be afraid. My name is Emina... I.. brought you some of my dinner."

With that, her small hand extended into his caged home, offering a small portion of dried meat. Even with the mask upon his face, his indecision was obvious. He must be starving, Emina thought, even as she watched him struggle within himself.

"It's yours," she coaxed softly, glancing nervously toward the entrance. As soon as she had turned her gaze away, she felt the food snatched from her fingertips. A soft gasp escaped her, and she pulled her hand back, curling tiny fingers around the bars. She watched in silence as he devoured the treat she had brought.

"Do you have a name?" She queried, in the same gentle tone - though her voice trembled with the tears she had shed for him.

"Erik," came his reply, after a long moment. His voice was sweet, eloquent, and she longed to hear it again.

"I am sorry for the things he does to you," she began softly.

"If you're caught, what will they do to you?" the voice returned. It lacked the venom that she found in every other voice that addressed her, and her soul was soothed by his company.

"Nothing they don't already do," she replied miserably.

"Then I am sorry for the things he does to you, too."

With that, Emina found herself at a loss for words. Reaching to the dirtied hay beneath her, she picked up her gift. She had stolen it, but that did not seem to matter now. She picked up the small monkey, with tiny cymbals fastened to each of its hands. Gently pushing it through the bars, she dropped it at his feet.

"I will not be able to come often," she murmured. "Perhaps he can keep you company when I cannot."

The stomping of feet filled the tent, and utter fear filled Emina's face. She stood, and began to run, intending to slip out the flap at the back of the tent instead of the front. In her haste, she stumbled over some of the litter scattered by those who had come earlier to mock the devil's child. Within a moment he was upon her.

"Does daddy's little girl like the devil's child, mmm?" The disgusting man atop her slurred, the smell of alcohol burning her eyes. Her face was forced into the grime below her by a callous elbow, and her torture was relived. Only this time, if she opened her eyes, he was there. And through the small holes cut into the sack, she could see that it was his turn to weep for her.

Raquel wept silently by the time Emina had finished, but after having finished the tale Emina regretted it deeply. She had given one of her good memories away, and whether intentional or not, she knew that eventually it would become fodder for the talk that circulated the dormitories about her.

"I'm sorry," Raquel began, and Emina simply shook her head negatively and lay back, again hiding beneath her pillow. After silence hung between them for what seemed hours, Raquel left more quietly than she had came, and it was Emina's turn to shed a tear.