Full Summary: Very, very AU. The year is 1961 and Christine Daaé is the lead of an British scientific expedition to the remote country of Papua New Guinea. When things go horribly wrong and her team is captured by fierce natives, she believes she is going to die until she is spared by their "god", a hideously deformed yet alluring man called Erik. Meanwhile, back in England, her colleague and fiancé Raoul resolves to find out what happened to her... Rated 'M' for intense sequences of violence and gore, language, and adult themes.

Author's Note: Please keep in mind that I'm writing this for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and the aim is to write 50,000 words in 30 days; yes, I know parts will be horribly-written, I just need to get the ideas out there. I plan on revising it and submitting a second draft after November is over. :)

Disclaimer: Any recognizable characters from The Phantom of the Opera do not belong to me. Everything else pretty much does. Please ask me for permission if you intend to borrow any original characters. Thanks.

Prologue

The man sputtered, water gushing from his mouth as he crawled up the beach, leaving the pallet. He collapsed on the sand, drawing a deep breath. He didn't know where he was or what he was going to do next. All he knew was that he was still alive and didn't like it.

I was supposed to die out there, dammit, he thought bitterly. What's the point if there's nothing to live for?

He lay on the beach for a while, enjoying the feel of breathing slowly and deliberately, naturally, not having to gulp and gasp for the precious oxygen and instead receiving a great flow of salt water. He closed his eyes—so sensitive to light even after all these years—and listened, merely listened to the gentle harmony of the waves lapping against the shore, the quiet breeze in the palms, brushing against his cursed and skeletal face, the bane of his existence.

Sighing, he sat up, cradling his face in his hands. He was tired, overwrought; he was even hungry, which was a rare phenomenon in itself. He supposed he should be thankful for the rest and quiet and solitude so foreign to him as of late, circumstances being as they are—

Were, he corrected himself. That's all in the past. And I'll never have to go back.

Not that he knew where he was or if he could even return to his native land even if he chose, but it was a comforting thought all the same to a man who'd all his life been tortured and tormented by Fate. Now, he could afford to take matters into his own hands.

He removed his hands from his face, soaking in the tropical scenes that lay all around him. Perhaps he had landed on a small desert island?

He stood now, slowly, re-accustoming his legs to support his weight instead of having to paddle. Finally, he took a step forward, and then another; he felt like a child, though anything but small at his tremendous height.

Satisfied that he would be able to walk again, he threw one last glance at the ocean to his back and headed into the trees and the comforting darkness that lurked there.

-----

By the time night fell he'd been able to establish a general lay of the land; at least the parts closest to the shore. He had underestimated the size of the land mass after all; the dense forest seemed to stretch on endlessly, a lush tropical paradise the likes of which he couldn't even begin to fully comprehend. Not yet, anyway. But for the moment, he couldn't afford to lose any recognizable geographic features that would help him maneuver his way through the forest, so he always ensured that wherever he went, he could always hear the constant whisper of the waves.

He sat in the near-darkness quietly, savoring the taste of the fresh meat he'd been able to catch, his small cook fire giving off a feeble circle of light. He swatted away a bug aimlessly, surprised that anything could even consider him desirable, even if it was for nourishment. He smirked, thinking of the tales of vampire bats and other such blood-sucking creatures of the rainforest, wondering if he too would become their prey.

Shrugging apathetically, thoroughly enjoying himself, he took hold of the small gourd he had filled with water from a nearby stream and took a sip, relishing in the way the cool water sloshed over his still-parched lips and tongue. Who knew the sea, the embodiment of beauty for so many, could be so ruthless and cruel?

Then again, he thought bitterly, beauty is always an illusion. Always.

Absorbed in his thoughts as he was, he didn't hear the rustle of the underbrush or the quiet padding of approaching feet until it was too late. The cook fire was suddenly extinguished, and he was plunged into blackness; before his eyes could adjust, he felt a sudden and piercing pain in his neck, and he slumped forward, losing consciousness.

-----

They gathered around the long, limp form slowly, clutching their weapons protectively, their dark eyes wide.

One member of the group, just barely a man, stooped close to the unconscious figure and positioned him so he was laying on his side; one of the tailing members brought the light.

Frightened exclamations burst forth from all as the light hit the stranger's face. It was hideous, resembling a skull, the eyes deep set, the lips thin and translucent such that the teeth were visible; there was even no nose!

"Great Rishka," breathed one member of the hunting party, making a gesture over his forehead, the rest of his companions following suit.

"It's so ugly!" exclaimed another. "Let's leave it."

"We should bring it to Laon," said the youngling, still kneeling close to the figure in fascination.

"Be quiet, Wipualo, you don't know what you're saying," snapped another member of the party.

Wipualo stood suddenly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I finished my Trial, Father. I am a man now, and every man and member of a hunting party is allowed to have his say."

A few of the men nodded, murmuring among themselves about the disturbance.

"The Youngling is right," said the senior member of the group, a man the villagers called Suna. "We should bring him to Laon."

-----

The older man had his back to the door, but he immediately identified the approaching footsteps as those of his protégé. "What is it, Wipu?"

"We found a strange man during our hunt; I thought it was best we bring him to you, you might like to see him."

He wrinkled his brow, though kept his back turned. "All of us are strange, my boy."

"Stranger than most," replied Wipualo with a slight grin. Lowering his voice, he added, "I brought him because of the prophecy."

At this, Laon spun around. "Bring him in."

Wipu nodded in respect towards his teacher and left the hut, returning a moment later followed by a few men carrying a long pole between them, a long, slender figure bound by wrists and ankles to the pole.

Laon gestured for the men to deposit their unconscious ward in the middle of the hut, and they cut him loose.

After a few moments of silence, Laon turned to his pupil. "What do you think, Wipu? Is it him?"

"Well, look at his face, the rest of his body even. The muscles are nearly invisible, I've never seen a man so slender."

He nodded. "There is but one way to tell."

"What?"

At that moment, the man on the floor began to stir. Wipu started back in shock; the man's eyes were glowing. Confused, horrified, he looked at his teacher; he was smiling.

"He has come," murmured the old man, making a gesture over his forehead. He touched his fingers gently to the face of the stranger, remnants of the tranquilizer still in his system.

"Welcome, my lord."