Title: The Show Must Go On

Chapter: I. Lingering Presence

Fandom: The Phantom of the Opera

Author: MysticStoryteller

Summary:Brothers, one born from a night of passion, the other born from a lifetime of love, meet in the Opera Populare. They find each other like their parents did, one working for the opera, the other haunting it. They both fall for an alluring, sweet ballerina. But everything goes awry when an angel, claiming to be the Angel of Music, arrives and wreaks havoc on the opera house. Will the brothers be able to save the Opera Populare, along with the life of the woman they love?

Rating: T for dark themes, violence and cursing

Pairings: Silas//Christian, slight Erik/Angel, implied Erik/Christine/Roaul

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the songs that appear

A/N: Hey everybody! This is my new Phantom of the Opera fan fiction. I really think this is my forte, and I really love the dark, grim feel to it. I made a trailer for this, if you'd like to see it, you can find it on my profile page. So, this idea came pretty much with one idea: what if the Angel of Music, was actually a real angel that deceived him into creating chaos? And then, the rest of it just fell into place. Well, enjoy!

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The Show Must Go On

Chapter I:

Lingering Presence

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"The Phantom of the Opera is now, your master mind!"

The clear, sweet voice ran out, echoing through the theatre. A figure, crouching in the shadows cocked its head, listening to the voice. He'd heard it so many times, but never seen its owner. He longed to sing like that.

Though, he longed to sing even one note well. As it was…there weren't many notes he could actually hit. No, his true talent lay in the violin.

The beautiful voice frightened him, but it was so alluring; one could not turn away from it easily.

He could not, would not get away from it; it made him wonder what his mother's voice had sounded like, as most describe her singing like a lark: sweet and heartbreaking, or a siren: mesmerizing.

"Damned voice!" cried Mr. Adele, the Opera Populare's newest owner. The figure jumped slightly at the noise. Below him, the ballerinas were aflutter, huddling together like a heard of sheep and whispering to each other, their eyes flitting about the ceiling, trying to find the source of the voice, which had been present for nearly two weeks. He stood up on the rafters and hopped from wooden rafter, to wooden rafter. He was nimble, to say the least.

But of course, this was his life.

Although, it had not always been.

It had been his father's once. But what did that matter? The young man continued, through the shadows that used to frighten him so- now they were his protection. It saddened him often that this was his only choice now. He was a monster and could not risk allowing himself in public.

His life, and the life of his father, his mother and many others, was defined by a mask.

It was a simple one, very sleek and beautiful. But frightening, too. It was white, like bone, and covered the right eye from the forehead to the ear. How strange it was that this mask had decided his past and future. It had engulfed his entire life and would not release him from its grasp.

It was almost as if his father's soul had been placed in that mask and it doomed whoever wore it to either don the mask and become the monster or die.

All one had to do was look at the long line of successors, after his father, to see the pain and havoc it wreaked: Meg Giry, who left it in the keeping of her mother, who kept it on her night table. After that, it was promptly stolen by a group of young ballerinas who wanted to see if it was real.

From there, it was taken into the hands of a flirtatious salesman who simply wooed the ballerinas into letting him have it. He placed the mask in his store window, to poke fun at the tale that became legend and to bring uproar in sales and business. It was there for two days, until he was found dead one morning, killed before he could close up shop.

Promptly, it was given back to the managers of the Opera Populare, who died within the next two weeks (one from old age, the other from cholera and both within a week of each other). The new manager, a man with a handlebar mustache and a bit of a protruding stomach, had kept the mask for himself.

From there, the young man had managed to steal it for himself considering it was his only keepsake of his father.

And now he was the Phantom, though he knew he didn't have the voice or the heart for it. He wished he did, but tried to make do with the life he had been given.

The truth was he longed to be on the stage and to be greeted with a warm standing ovation. Above all, he wished to have the voice of an angel, in which people would be taken to other worlds, to be moved, to find hope once more, all in the sound of his voice.

He retreated back into the darkness as the rehearsals continued.

&.&.&.&.&.&.

The water around the boat sloshed quietly as the young man rowed himself slowly to his home. He didn't like living underground and found it, at times, rather unnerving. But still, when he reached the shore, he felt as though his mother's soul was watching him, guarding him.

He surveyed the little place he called home. It wasn't much, but he loved it anyway. It helped him remember who he was, and where he came from, even though it was a little unsettling.

The candles rose from the water, like wraiths of dead souls, and lit themselves when he snapped his fingers. One had to admit, his father was a genius, no matter how insane he had become.

Mooring the boat, he stepped out. His eyes landed on the violin that he loved so much. His sweet, sweet violin- it was, apart from Miss Giry, his only friend and confidant. He strode over to it and picked it up. Sitting down, he began to play a melody, a lullaby, one he had always known, but never remembered from what. There were words, but he never knew them. So, he had made his own.

Child of the wilderness
Born into emptiness
Learn to be lonely
Learn to find your way in darkness

Who will be there for you?
Comfort and care for you?
Learn to be lonely
Learn to be your one companion

Never dreamed out in the world
There are arms to hold you
You've always known your heart was on its own


So laugh in your loneliness
Child of the wilderness
Learn to be lonely
Learn how to love life that is lived alone

Learn to be lonely
Life can be lived; life can be loved alone…

He trailed off, thinking of when he first wrote the lyrics. He was twelve, still dealing with the loss of his father who had been emotionally distant until his death, when the young man was only six. Over the years, the song practically wrote itself through his hands.

"Bravo!" A clapping awoke him from his thoughts as he turned to see his visitor.

"Hello Miss Giry," he said politely, like a young child might to an elder. She was beautiful, even though she was much older than him. In her mid-thirties, she seemed as youthful as ever. Though she could never be the prima ballerina again, she was a fair coach and an understanding teacher.

"Good day, Silas," she nodded her head and surveyed the lair, as she stepped of her little boat and onto the ground.

"How is Mr. Adele?"

She smiled a little; she disliked Mr. Adele and his constant anger issues, as did Silas. "Ah, he is as red-faced as ever. Especially since I gave him the new script you wrote. He doesn't like the changes."

Silas laughed a bit. "What doesn't he like?"

"The new ending. He demands it be re-written."

He sighed, smirking a little. "He just cannot be pleased, can he? Why doesn't he see that there is no happy ending? The lovers simply can't end up together. It just doesn't make sense that way."

It always surprised him how comfortable Meg was here. Even then, she was inspecting things. She stopped at the bust his father had made, the one with the black scarf tied around one half of its face. She traced the line from his forehead down to his chin absentmindedly.

"I agree thoroughly."

"Can your mother try and calm him?"

She nodded a bit and sat down. "I'll ask her."

He grinned a bit as he tore a loose hair from his bow. "How long do you think he'll last?"

"With or without your help?" she met his eyes and both glinted with a sense of mockery and mischievousness.

He chuckled. "Without. I'm not that awful, am I?"

"Well, you could do without singing and frightening the cast and crew. But, it must please you that Mr. Adele is wrought up about it."

Silas froze. "The voice? That's not me."

"If its not you then…?" she trailed off.

"Oh, I'm sure its nothing. Maybe just a bored school boy…if not, maybe we have an angel of music on our hands," he said jokingly, smiling good-naturedly.

He did not know how right he was.

- -

Coming next week…

The torture went on until Mr. Adele could stand it no more. "Thank you, Mr. Gray. Next!"

"Your name, sir?" Silas heard Madame Giry ask. The Madame was his eyes and ears in many cases and he could not have been more thankful for the former ballet instructor.

The voice that answered was rich, smooth and had a sense of youth to it- as though the speaker was only in his late teens. "Christian Daae."

Silas froze. Daae? Daae. That was his mother's maiden name. There were no other Daaes in France, he was almost sure of that. Could if be that he had a brother? He didn't want to believe it but, he took a chance and peeked over the balcony of the box.