Disclaimer: I do not own POTO.

Author's notes: This idea's been in my head for quite a while now, and when I was sorting through my notes and sketches, I found it.  Do enjoy!

Also: on the subject of the title. It's an English word with a French etymology.  It basically means the "vital force or impulse of life"; a synonym for "soul" or "spirit".

Summary: Erik dies in 1881, but reawakens in the body of a small child in the year 2003.  He soon discovers that he wasn't the only one; Christine and Raoul are in 2003 as well.  Strangely, the bodies that they are in belong to real children; the souls of those children are gone in place of the trio's, and they must find them.

Also, I did remove "Her Darkangel" and it will NOT be coming back.  I'm sorry to those of you who liked it; it was not my best writing and I really wasn't happy with it.

"Élan Vital" by The Phantom Parisienne

Prologue: The Awakening

I wearily shut my eyes to the bright pain that was the glow of the candles. My pen, loaded with crimson, blood-like ink, danced over the manuscript, leaving trails of my Hellish creation.  Christine was gone...and Death was swooping to me on swift dark wings.  Light burned me; darkness was the fuel of the waning flame that was my life; darkness, and the desire to complete Don Juan Triumphant.  Don Juan Triumphant was a chronometer of my time remaining on earth, or should I say: a strange sort of Hell that was only preliminary to the real fiery inferno ruled over by the Devil himself.  When I completed Don Juan, my life would be complete, and I would extinguish from life as the candles did.

The loud, drumming beat of my heart echoed through the silent halls as I gave a shudder and wrote on through the eternal darkness that could have been mid-afternoon on the surface of Paris.  Night and day were one; always black, lit here and there by flickering candles.  Day had neither meaning nor place in my underground labyrinth.  Night was immortal in Hell.

Unconsciously my hand created a small red rose with the pen on the yellowing parchment and signed "Erik," the name of a man that had ceased to exist.  My long fingers drifted to the edges of the large book and closed it slowly.  It was over: my life's work, Don Juan, was complete, and I was to take it to my grave with me.  I would never wake up.

Of course, there was a possibility I would wake up in a real Hell filled with demons and illuminated by blazing furnaces.  I was not foolish enough to believe that my soul was destined for Heaven after all of my vile sins and crimes.  A murderer, demon, and thief was most likely doomed to the Devil's realm for eternity.

Very solemnly, I lifted myself from the organ where I had been writing and, holding Don Juan Triumphant in my trembling hands, began to climb into the scarlet silk-lined coffin.  Instead of my intended deep breaths, my breathing was short and hurried.  I was shaking violently and my vision was becoming unnaturally blurred; no tears were in my eyes.  Nervously I lay down in the coffin and pulled the lid over me, the darkness no real change from my black-and-red-draped bedchamber.

My eyelids slid closed and I smiled slightly. "Angel, enjoy Heaven for me."

And then, I passed from existence. 

Or, I would've.

But I didn't. 

I was alive.

Not in Paris, but still alive...breathing, my heart beating, my eyes seeing, my ears hearing.

It wasn't possible.

Regardless, it was happening.