A/N: Hello! Welcome. I have a bit of a slow start to my story, but it does pick up.
So please, give the story a chance and enjoy yourself!

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, names characters, places are fictional and not my work.

His Voice

Chapter One

Paris, 1874

In the darkness of the small dormitory lay a huddled blanket in the corner of the room. Underneath this blanket was a young girl, no older than eleven years old, whose cries of pain were once piercing through the silence had now become muffled as she slowly drifted into sleep.

Christine Daae had once had many dreams, dreams in which her father would watch her sing and dance in front of hundreds of people. She would perform for him, to make his ambitions for his only daughter come true and watch as that caring smile she loved so much spread across his face.

But fate took her father from her and along with it her dreams. Now the dreams had become nightmares, full of lonely darkness. Her father's death had left her with nothing but a gaping hole which his love and music used to fill. His final words to her continuously ran through her fragile mind, a promise she held onto which kept her from falling apart completely.

"When I am in heaven child, I will send you the Angel of Music…"

It had been several months since his parting to Heaven and there was still no Angel. Christine's new guardian, Madam Giry, was very strict but still lovely at heart. Christine knew she was extremely lucky to be in the care of such a person. However the place in which she now lived was the last place she would rather be. After losing all interest in her passion she was pushed completely into the arms of the Opera Populaire where she lived and breathed performance. Madam's influence ensured that Christine continued what she and her father had started, but try as she might her heart was just not there for the splendours the Opera House offered.

This was the night that everything changed. Christine's recurring nightmare had spared her, leaving her to enjoy a peaceful slumber...

She began floating on a cloud, weightless and relaxed for the first time in months. She rose, enjoying the feeling of the pearly white softness beneath her little toes. She liked it there in her own little world with nothing but open sky in front of her. Christine wanted to fly as far as she could through the deep blue sky, counting the stars each one brighter than the next. She pirouetted perfectly and dived as fast as she could; the dark grass beneath her grew steadily closer, wind rushed through her curls… She was just an arm length away… She took a deep breath and landed with a soft 'flump' on the cool grass…

"Christine…"

Christine's eyes fluttered open slowly. She had become vaguely aware of the soft mattress beneath her, of the cold pillow beneath her ear. She squinted in the darkness searching the shadows, hoping, wishing upon one of the stars in her dream that she had finally been worthy of her Angel's presence.

"Angel?" She whispered.

The room was as empty as it had been before; the shadows were just shadows and the voice she thought she had heard was a distant wind which had fluttered into the room through the gap under the door. Christine's eyes drooped in exhaustion as she fell instantly into slumber again.

But in the dim light of morning one question circled her unsettled mind; how had she woken up in her bed?

The Opera Populaire stood in the heart of Paris; a building made of white marble with large stone pillars on the front outer wall. It was raised four tiers above ground level, with an amphitheatre gallery, balconies and, for the upper class, private boxes. The charm of the Opera House invited patrons from all over Europe who had a particular interest in the sublime architecture, and not to mention the beautiful young dancers.

Yes, the Opera Populaire was a great entertainment venue and a huge success. But beneath all of the sparkling marble, glittering chandeliers and fine entertainment were dark passageways, trapdoors and even talk of an Opera Ghost. A phantom, that flitted through the corridors by night, watching over the Opera House and determining how the theatre should be run. Stories say that this 'ghost' was neither man nor spirit but an entity hovering between life and death. That he lived deep within the Opera House where no human could find him. Some say that he is as old as the Opera House himself as he helped to build it! No one dared cross the Phantom of the Opera for they knew it came with a fate worse than death.

This was only half true, for the man who resided under the pseudonym of 'Opera Ghost' was just that; a man. His name was Erik. He had travelled the world in his prime and learnt of many things but carried with him a dark past, a past in which no one would fully understand. He did indeed stalk the halls of the Populaire by night, live beneath the Opera House far away from prying eyes, and had quite a fair share in the running of the house in exchange of twenty thousand francs a month for his services; a fee in which the manager, Monsieur Lefèvre, was keen to oblige.

Erik was a tormented soul since childhood, never knowing love and compassion, only feeling pain and destruction. He had learned that solitude was his better option and that this way he would only have to rely on himself alone. When he wasn't watching the world above in their petty day to day lives, he spent his time hidden away in the darkness of his chambers, composing pieces to be used in his very own operas which the house above would perform. Music was his lifeline and his means of escape from his troubled past.

This was until one night on his routine stroll around the dark corridors; he came across a strange sound emerging from one of the Ballet dormitories. It sounded muffled and strained, like someone was trying to strangle the life from a struggling animal. His general curiosity took over giving him the incentive to look inside the room in question and put his prying eyes to rest. Erik opened the door and peered into the darkness. He had lived in the dark for so long that his eyes were able to adapt to the surroundings quicker than a normal persons would. The room appeared empty on his first search but as he followed the muffled sounds he came across a thin moth-eaten blanket in the corner of the room, dark curly hair was spilling out from underneath over the stone floor.

So this was the young Daae, daughter of the Violinist. He had heard stories of the poor Swedish orphan through the grapevine; people had said that she could be a protégé if it had not have been for her Father's death taking all of her passion from her and leaving nothing but depression in its wake. Erik frowned at the thought; such a sad tale, to let such talent go to waste over a loss.

Her crying had begun to turn into a painful wail like a cat whose tail had just been sharply trodden on. Erik snapped his hands to his ears keeping the sound from forming as a memory; of all the horrors he had lived through in his life this was something he was not keen to remember. It was hard for a man never knowing any compassion to begin to feel remorse for the poor innocent child. He wanted to leave, to run like he always did from the pain in the world and hide deep within his own kingdom beneath the Opera House but something kept him there rooted to the spot in the shadows, waiting patiently for the moment when she would cry herself into slumber.

The minutes passed and the child's wailing slowly turned into dry heaving. The poor dear had cried herself into exhaustion with the only sounds erupting from under the blanket being her sniffles and short gasps from what Erik could only assume was her little form touching the cold stone floor beneath her. He sighed lifting himself from a low crouch in the shadows and crossing the room in a couple of steps to her side. He scooped her up lightly in his arms holding her like she was made of glass, like the slightest grip too tight would crush her to dust. He could tell from her tiny form that she had a fragile soul which already needed a lot of healing at such a young age. He could sympathise there knowing all too well how a broken heart and soul could affect you in later life.

Erik sighed, "Christine…" He placed her down on the bed and stroked her hair lightly, the soft strands running through his long fingers.

"Angel…?" Christine whispered. Her eyes had slowly fluttered open, but the pressure of her eyelids made her vision hazy. He was safe where he was, standing deadly still in the shadow by her bedside; if she were to reach out now she would be able to cling to the hem of his cloak. Her energy had lasted but a brief second, for she collapsed on the bed once more and into an instant slumber.

He hadn't realised where he was until he had arrived, his feet seemed to have carried him without his consent. He stood on the roof of the Opera House at the base of Apollo's Lyre staring out into the night's sky. What had she meant by Angel? Erik felt a strange tightening in his chest as he thought of Christine; her poor frail form lying there alone in the dark conflicted by pain. He wanted nothing more than to be able to reach out and comfort the poor child, and to live up to this Angel persona she had called for. He was anything but, yet he needed to be her Angel.

A/N: I had a lot of trouble writing this chapter, which isn't a good start to a new story. I have an idea and I really hope I manage to please you with it. Please review and let me know your thoughts.