Author's Note: This series of drabbles is a bit different from anything else I've ever written, so I'm a bit anxious about its reception. It is based on several different versions of Erik, including the 2004 movie version, the stage version, and Leroux/Kay so hopefully it will appeal to all types of POTO fans. It is very poetic/symbolic in nature, so if you don't like that kind of thing, you might want to consider checking out one of my other pieces that is actually a story rather than a bunch of drabbles. Despite it being the oddball of my writing, I am rather pleased with how it turned out. I'd love to know what you think, so if you like it, please leave a review! :)

~CaptainHooksGirl~

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. Leroux, Kay, Webber, and Schumacher do own it and have done a marvelous job telling Erik's story in several versions that we all know and love. This is a tribute to them and all our favorite Eriks.

His Face

His face is like a map, riddled with winding roads and twisted turns. It's easy to get lost in the landscape when your only compass is the sun, the harsh light of day which exposes every flaw.

I have walked that path before—the path of fear—where all you can see is the darkness within, where the wind in the treetops turns to whispers in your ear and the branches reach out to grab you and even the most innocent field of wildflowers is overshadowed by the black clouds that block out the sun. And suddenly, the songbird goes silent, his innocent melody giving way to the haunting howl of a wolf. His song is every bit as beautiful, but it sends shivers up your spine. The thunder rumbles in the distance. And then the storm breaks free—it rages and rips and shatters your dreams because in that moment you realize that the bird and wolf are one and the same. Like a hurricane, it tosses you to and fro. Your world is falling apart and your fears are crashing in around you and you wonder if you'll survive…And then the wind is still and there's nothing but a slow, steady rain and you're crying and he's crying and you're clinging to one another as if your life depends on it, though in reality you know that you're both drowning and all you're doing is dragging each other down as the rivers overflow their banks and you're sinking down…down…down… And you can't breathe and you can't think and just when you think your world is going to end you open your eyes to see his lips on yours, breathing life into your body and fire into your soul. He thinks that you saved him, but you know, if you're completely honest, that he saved you as well.

I no longer walk the path of fear, for I know these roads. I know every twist and turn, every imperfection. My fingertips have memorized the map—the mountains, the valleys, the gullies and the streams. My lips have tasted their sweet waters, kissed every salty tear that should not have fallen from his eyes. His face is no longer a mystery to me, yet even now sometimes I find myself getting lost in his features for a different reason. In fact, sometimes, I can't even see the map at all…as if the roads had been leveled and mountains worn smooth. This time my heart is my compass, and somehow the flaws I'd seen before don't seem to matter anymore. His face may not be normal—his map may not be perfect—but until you lose your way, you will never know the beauty that lies just beyond the charted borders.

I love his face because I know his heart is beautiful.