So yeah, I've been away from here for awhile. I've been on holiday and then I had so much uni work I nearly caved. And to get back into the whole phic writing thing I had to start another. So, I'm going to be writing this one and The Pact.

Might get M rated a bit later on.

Chapter One.

He had started walking the streets at night again, a few months after Christine had left him…That night he had lost control of everything…He had often walked the darkened boulevards of Paris before any of the chaos happened, mulling over the next day's lesson for Christine or seething over the stupidity of the managers for agreeing to a particularly horrible set design – and contemplating ways to rectify their mistakes. The sable of night had always reassured him. He could wander as much as he liked, like any other mortal man, until the tell-tale signs of dawn began to creep over the horizon, then he would return to his home by the lake. He had had to stop this ritual after the Opera Populaire was burned, for the police and even mere citizens were after his head. Therefore he had moved from place to place, never so far as venturing from the doorway, except when he had no choice but to search for scraps of food – for as much as he had denied it over the years, he was not a ghost and therefore had to succumb to worldly habits such as eating. But the strangest part of all, was that he had missed his nightly walk. He had never realised that subconsciously he had needed that contact with other people – even if it was when they were in their beds asleep, even if it meant him standing in the shadows, imagining the interactions that took place during the day in the now closed markets, on the now deserted streets…But when he had started the wandering again, after he had returned to his home when the search for him had died down those months later, he could not deny the lightness in his step when he commenced his first walk after so long.

Even hidden away from the world he had heard whispers of the mad lust that had overcome the people of Paris to find him. The bounty on his head had added to that of course…Poor, innocent civilians that hid from the outside world were ripped from their sanctuaries if there was but an ounce of suspicion from passerbyers. Such was the fear of Paris. All because of him. Anybody that so much as wore a hooded cloak was chased through the streets – he had heard that long-forgotten criminals on the run had even been captured in the search for him. He remained indifferent to those men, but he had to acknowledge the burning guilt that smothered him when he had first heard the story of the widow's son who had been dragged from the vegetable stall he had always worked in, which belonged to his Uncle. He had always worn a hood over his face, his eyes downcast as he exchanged fruit or vegetables for coins. It was because of his own sins that the young lad, barely a man, had been thrown into the middle of the markets when somebody yelled "Phantom!"

There had been similar cases before, where someone wanting to stir trouble had chosen any suspicious looking person and had wrongly identified him intentionally. And before any sense could be found, that person lay bleeding on the pavement. This particular individual was incorrectly recognised and thrust forth. The men attacked him, like ants covering a feeble insect. The young man had no chance, especially as the hood was ripped from him, revealing a disfigured face. Marred horribly, blistered red – every blemished split and curve branding him and signing his execution papers. The fools did not care at that moment to consider that this boy was twenty years younger than the man they were looking for. So involved in their hunt were they, they did not stop until his blood spattered the pavement. They did not stop until the youth was dead. His body lay alone when the crowd quickly dispersed, knowing that they could easily be prosecuted, as the police did not take lightly acts of vigilantism. His body lay alone when he was identified as the only child of a widowed seamstress, who had been burnt horribly in a fire which had taken the life of his Father and baby sister as a young boy.

Nothing would stop this guilt – not even sending hefty amounts every month to the poor woman anonymously. Infact, that deed even increased it. For he knew it was blood money.

Everything really was in bedlam. It seemed that he had single-handedly destroyed so many lives…People who had lived in the Opera Populaire had lost their homes, their belongings, their livelihoods…Usually he would not care, but people he even deemed creditable had been affected. Giry had found him in one of the hovels he resided in, visibly shaken.

"They've driven us out of the new apartment, Erik…" her voice trailed off, as she paced the room, "And yet another person attacked me, on the way here…The man's wife was injured in the fire,"

He had gritted his teeth, affronted that anybody would assault her, but she waved his attempts at speaking away, "People need a scapegoat, Erik, when things have gone wrong, is it any wonder that I have been chosen? I cannot stay in Paris any longer. I cannot find work here – my reputation is in ruins. I do not want that for my Meg, she has such talent for dance, she deserves a new start somewhere where nobody knows us, or the legend of the Opera Ghost,"

His mouth suddenly dried – she leaving Paris? This was her home, her life! What would she do without Paris?

What would he do without her?

"Now, I really must go," Giry was saying, and she sighed wearily, "Who knows what that stupid girl will do, if I'm gone for more than a moment. Ever since she caught the eye of that Dumas boy...I can't trust her to remain sensible..."

He had taken her arm before she moved towards the door, "And Christine? What of her? Is she happy?"

He saw the flicker of sorrow in her eyes, and she chewed her lip, "It is still the same as when I last told you Erik – the Vicompte's brother is threatening to disinherit him if he marries Christine,"

The muscles in his cheek twitched. He had been forbidden by Giry to try and amend things – and she was right of course. He would just make everything worse…

"And Reyer?"

"Reyer is still recovering…Poor man, the medicine seems to be working," she looked at him sharply, "I know you sent the money for it. It was the decent thing to do of course, but one false move could be your head,"

"I don't think I care anymore…" he had not realised he had murmured that out loud, until she had ripped her arm from his grip and was backing away from him.

"Do you care so little for your own life now to not even think how it would affect those who do care for you?!" her breathing was shallow and hard, but her tone was angry, "Don't you realise what position those words of yours place me under? I have worried for you for over thirty years! Through taking you from the gypsy camp and hiding you away where you could have been caught, through you disappearing those years and ending up in Persia of all places, through the death of my husband, through being a Mother alone to Meg, through this, my thoughts have always been on you! Always! I can't do it anymore Erik – I have to think solely of my daughter and myself. And you don't even have the decency to make this easy for me!"

He stared at her as she shook, her hands wavering to her face.

"Giry, I –" he moved forward brokenly, but threw himself back as she clipped the side of him with her cane. Then she turned on her heel and fled.

She was right of course – what a selfish low-life he had always been. He couldn't even have the courtesy to end his life.

He stumbled through the streets to the flat where Giry was staying in. It was dilapidated and broken-down. A fleapit. It was easy to find them – even if her surroundings were a dump, she always kept it as neat as a pin. It always stood out a mile away.

He crept into an opened window in the back of her home, and suddenly became alert when he heard a smash from the other side of the flat – the sound of a plate being broken? Were they being burgled?

Suddenly he heard Giry shouting, "You married him? You stupid, thoughtless girl!"

He then heard little Giry, her voice hoarse and choking back tears, "I had to Mother – I couldn't leave Paris. I love him –"

"You went behind my back Meg Giry!"

"I had no choice Maman!" Meg bleated, and there came the sound of a slap which cut short her words.

"Don't you speak to me of not having a choice Meg. There are always choices in everything, and you certainly had one in this – you just chose the wrong one!" Giry replied back venomously.

The girl wailed something inaudible, but this became muffled as the door slammed, and Giry stormed down the corridor, and entered the room where he was hiding.

She let out a short scream when she saw the figure in the shadows, but managed to compose herself when she realised who it was. Wavering on her feet slightly she leant against the doorframe, mumbling to herself. He just watched her from his corner of the room, not knowing what to do.

"Are you happy now, Erik?" her whisper was strained, and bordering on hysteria, "Are you happy that now I have truly lost everything dear to me?"

"Annie, I never wanted –"

"Hush, and make yourself useful," she moved forward to her cupboard where she opened it and began to pull the clothes from inside, "There is a trunk under my bed. Pull it out for me,"

All at once her emotions were veiled, her chin raised defiantly as she faced yet another tumultuous chapter in her life.

"What are you going to do?" he asked softly.

"There are coaches that leave for Bordeaux every morning. I have been thinking about going there for some time and working in a small theatre – it is only because of Meg's reluctance to leave Paris that I have not gone until now. And now that she has decided to stay here with her new husband, why hesitate any further?" she asked, folding a dress and placing it in the open trunk that he had pulled out.

He said nothing in reply but began to help her fold her garments.

Gray dawn spilled over the horizon as he watched Giry entering a hansom after the driver secured her trunk on the roof. He stood in the shadows as he watched a tear-stained and shaking Meg embrace her Mother, with her husband waiting behind. The young man then stepped forward to help Giry in the carriage, but hastily retreated as she said a few blunt words to him.

He had to smile at that, but it faded somewhat when the carriage began to drive away. He stepped forward a little out of the shadows, and she nodded at him as she went past. Would this be the last time he ever saw Antoinette Giry?

He stopped walking now, outside of a modest looking apartment. The night was quiet and still, and he pulled his fedora lower to cover as much of his mask as he could, without hindering his sight. Then he knocked on the door and waited. Even without him in the equation, people's lives were destroyed. He was weary of all this guilt building up inside of him. It was time to end it all.

He had heard that the widow who's son had been murdered went wild the day after it happened. Had entered the market stalls where it had taken place, throwing the tables and people's produce violently, screaming at the assembled people – demanding answers as to why nobody had stepped in and helped her son. She had had to be restrained before she did serious damage, but nothing could tame her curses. Anybody that livid and inconsolable was warranted in desiring justice. It had been five months – her sorrow would have festered into bitterness by now.

The door opened, and a woman in her forties stood there. Her salt and pepper hued hair was tied up under a nightcap, and her arms hugged herself tightly, warding her from the cold air. The robe she wore was thin, and insufficient. She stared emotionlessly at the figure until her eyes moved to his face – and instinctively she stepped back when she saw the white gleaming eerily in the moonlight from his mask.

Her hand wavered to her face, and she began to shake. From inside his cloak, the man pulled out a bag of coins and held it out. In a moment she took it, and after unlacing the strings and seeing the coins she looked at him in slow realisation.

"So, you're the one…" she murmured, and led out a sob, dropping the bag to the carpet, where a few coins slid out, "You're the one who's been sending me money…You're the Phantom,"

"Yes, Madame," he swallowed.

There was a silence between them. She pressed her hands to her stomach and moved back, "I need to sit down…" and without further delay she turned away and disappeared into the house.

He followed her tentatively into what was a kitchen. He saw an unfinished meal on the table, and a knife and fork beside it. The woman was sitting on a straw chair, by a door which led to the back of the house. She looked blankly ahead, her face pale. The only sign of any distress was her knuckles gripping the arm of the chair and turning a sickly white.

"What…" her voice faltered, and she forced herself to continue, "What do you want?"

"Madame, I am here for you to decide on what will become of me," he paused, and then continued, "Your son is dead because of me…I have done unspeakable things in my past, and I am weary of looking around and seeing the chaos ensuing because of me. Please – send for the police, cleave me with that knife, do whatever it is you deem suitable. But please, do it now,"