Author's Note:Hello everyone.This is my first phan fic I hope you enjoy it.Reviews are much appreciated as well as constructive criticism.No flames please.This story is a retelling of the Phantom's tale beneath the Opera Populaire,though there will be alot of alterations made.I would like to apologize for the terrible summary, I shall be changing it soon to suit the story.In this story, Alexej is Erik's real name before he was abandoned to the gypsies, the name Erik was given by Mme Giry, because Alexej refuses to do anything with his past and unclaimed heritage.The story's based on Webber's musical and movie, but I just altered Erik's past and his background to give him a little more different and unique perspective of things.


PROLOGUE-THE ORIGINS OF A PHANTOM

"She was aferde of hym, for cause he was a devyls son."

Mallory, Morte d-Arthur

Wallachia. November 1842

Anica walked quickly through the wintry Carpathian countryside, ignoring the twigs and leaves caught in her dress and her hair, dragging a child with her whose small strides matched her brisk pace.A strange blend of emotions coursed through her as she spotted the bright orange glow of the gypsy bonfire burning steadily to keep the chill at bay.

She tugged on the child's small hand, quickening her pace.

The little boy was quiet beside her, his visible dark brow furrowed slightly, his pale face devoid of emotion.His face…Anica glanced down at the boy, and resisted the violent urge to cross herself.She couldn't suppress a shudder each time she beheld that..face..

Even after8 years.

She had been his caretaker, brought his meals to that shadowy dark little room, provided him with new books to read once the old ones were flung aside, their knowledge devoured and consumed thoroughly by his eager, sharp mind, presented him with stacks of music of the famous composers, to be played on his little violin with such dark passion and childish enthusiasm and expertise that Anica often wondered if the boy was indeed taught by the Devil himself.He was a genious, without a doubt.His young mind excelled at academics, mathematics, history and languages, poetry and architecture, literature and music with little difficulty, he starved for every scrap of knowledge with the hunger of a scholar.His shuttered, sheltered life drove the boy to ascend into a whole new realm, the domain of musique, and with music, he thrived, in music, he found solace, music nurtured him and fed his soul.His soul..

He had not once requested a single toy, not a single friend, not a scrap of human affection.

Anica almost felt sorry for little Alexej, but when she was targeted by his intense gaze- coldly analytical, rather than childishly curious- dissecting her soul into thousand pieces, all the pity she felt for the child's cruel punishments was dispelled immediately.

There was something…dark about him.Something sinister.

He had always been a distant, detached child, suffering hiscruelfather's physical and mental torment with surprising endurance.He had cravedhis affection at first, his love.

It was not to be.He was undeserving.Yes…indeed there was something sinister about him, of that, Anica was certain.

He was born to suffer.Born to survive.

Yes, he was a survivor from the beginning..The moment he had pushed his way out of his mother's womb, with such fierce primal instinct, Anica had known the boy would grow up to be a fighter, a survivor..or a murderer and a predator…if he lived at all.

But he did.

Of course he did.

Anica recalled that cold November night the Countess Ruxandra gave birth to the one and only heir to the Dragutinovich demesne.She remembered the Blood.There was so much of it, an unholy scarlet in colour, soaked into the pristine white linen sheets, the heavy blankets drenched.The room had smelled of sickly sweet, coppery crimson scent of blood.

It was a time to celebrate, time to welcome the new addition to the family.But the heavy dark curtains were drawn tightly, and all the mirrors in the castle had been draped with black velvet.It was a Mourning.

It was announced that the baby was still-born.

Few knew,ithad been delivered safely, it was healthy and strong, the tiny body well proportioned and resilient, blessed by the angels.

With a face cursed by the devil himself.

From the left side, it was the face of a cherub, unblemished, with smooth, soft baby skin.

From the right side, it was not a face at all.

Anica was terrified for her mistress, the beautiful 20 year old Ruxandra, a fine replacement for the former Countess Dragutinovich, who had disappeared quietly after it was established that her womb was barren, empty. Ruxandra could not conceive either,nor thedegenerate Count Lazslo's mistresses.

Desperate to provide him with a much anticipated heir, Ruxandra had consultedthat accursedold gypsy crone.The peculiar old woman had given her a foul smelling liquid to be consumed by her husband,along with an ominous warning.That man is not meant to create life, should you concieve his babe, be warned, his black seed is corrupted, his shadows deep.Too deep and beyond the grace of any god.

Anica sighed deeply, forcing the dreadful memories back into the void of her mind.A slight tremor of unease ran up her spine.

Alexej was looking at her.

Then she heard him speak in that soft, satiny voice of his, almost musical to the ear, darkly pleasant and strangely hypnotique.

"Mother's not coming back for me." It was not a question.

My God..He knew..Anica glanced down to study his profile one last time before she left him to the gypsies, that angelique side of his face that bore the classique, finely chiseled and strong features of his Romanian father, tempered exquisitely with the cold, regal beauty of his Russian mother.His eyes, a mesmerizing shade of storm grey, which took in whatever drew his attention with fierce intensity, were raised to stare at Anica once more.Eyes of the Predator.Butnow, their depths filled with unspoken fears, untold horrors.

Anica's resolve nearly shattered..she paused briefly, seeing the broken expression on his gargoyle/angel face, abnormal or no, he was still a child.Anica drew a sigh, suddenly overwhelmed by a violent urge to gather his small body close, hold him tightly in her embrace, and kiss his silken midnight black hair..

"Why does she want me gone?" he asked, in his voice a slight tremble.

Because she is afraid of you.Because you're a constant reminder of her black deed.Because you were never meant to be.

His question lay suspended in the air, a tense silence fell.The caravan master was approaching, to receive the newest addition to his freak show, his tanned, crude features distorted by greed and disgust at the dreadful sight of the boy's distorted and disfigured face.

Anica handed Alexej over to the vodka soaked foul Romany.Then she turned, without so much as a glance to the child she had loathed, the child she had loved.The darkening sky wept, rain splashing down around her, she was caught unawares.But she did not weep for the boy.His talents and resilience would be his saving grace.He would be looked after.He would survive.

After all, he was the devil's child.