Leroux/Kay based.
Summary: Erik will have to go on living as his heart did not give out after Christine left. He will take up his old life as the Opera Ghost. A woman will come along who will challenge him in many ways. She will also work her magic on him as he falls in love as he never has before. this time there will be more at stake. This time Erik risks losing more than just a piece of his heart. He risks losing his soul.
Heart of a Phantom
Chapter One
The Decline
Whoever said that love does not wound so deep that death can be achieved from the bleeding wound has never truly loved. I know this is true, for I am dying from the terrible barbs of loves wounding arrows. Love rejected is the cruelest of fates for one who has only ever felt that emotion once in almost five decades of life.
Due to the circumstances of what God deemed a suitable face for one of his children I had never thought to even entertain seeking out a woman as a companion. At least not since my early youth had the thought entered my mind. My adolescent imaginings went unfulfilled except in the most embarrassing way for one such as myself. Pleasure is pleasure that cannot be disputed, but would it not be even more sublime if shared with another?
My blasted libido had been dormant for some time. I do suppose the amount of morphine I had been indulging in had a small part in this. It never would have been resurrected had it not been for Christine Daaé enchanting me with her voice. Her voice was what drew me to her in the beginning. Once I saw her beautiful innocent face I knew I had to have her. I had to make her mine. Whatever means I needed, would be used to accomplish this goal. I wonder now if I had known I would have to wear the guise of the Angel of Music if I would have been so ready to risk all for anything she would give to me.
In the end I had nothing but her pity. Perhaps she did have some sort of affection for me. She had kissed me. Kissed me right on my forehead. I have never been kissed so I cannot say with total certainty, but I do think her lips pressed to my forehead was the most wondrous kiss ever given to anyone. When she had leaned her forehead toward me inviting my kiss, I thought for a moment I might die from the pleasure of it. If I could live in only one moment for eternity, that would be my moment. The splendid feeling of joy had all but transported me to what I am sure was some heavenly cloud.
My joy in the memory of those two exchanges is somewhat dimmed when I recall how I had dropped to my knees to beg her to love me, to stay with me. I had grabbed the hem of her dress pressing my lips to it then kissed her dainty foot that was encased in an elegant shoe. Actually it had been her shoe I kissed so I am even a more pathetic idiot than I first thought. I kissed her in supplication. It had all been for naught. She could not bear to live in this rabbit's burrow with me. This place is all darkness. She was pure light. I knew my dark world would drain every bit of light and life right out of her. She would die in her unhappiness if she were to lose her boy, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.
I had forced Christine to choose the grasshopper or the scorpion. With either choice I see now she would be choosing her death. To live with me would be the same as choosing death.
She had chosen to stay with me. Unbeknownst to her I had still kept Raoul prisoner. I had intended to leave him chained to that wall until he met his demise. In the end I could not let my love suffer his loss. The damn Persian would have haunted me night and day as well if I had done such a thing. Why I had not thought to chain him to a wall to die while Christine had fainted I cannot say. Perhaps in my insanity I had lost the ability to think clearly as usually I am quite a clever man.
I could not bear to think of how Christine would come to hate me if I forced her to lose her little lover. I, and I alone, should be the one to suffer in this decision. Releasing her to her young man was the right thing to do. Even as I knew it would cause my demise I rejoiced in my misery for having made her so happy. My reward for my loving gesture would be my demise I was sure. As I watched her leave my home, for what I knew to be the last time, until she kept her promise to bury me once she learned of my death, my chest had tightened with an unbearable pain, sending me to my knees. I had clutched at my chest as sobs took hold of me. Those sobs had echoed through my home for many days with little cessation. Music that had always filled my home, especially in times of stress or anger, now remained locked away in my mind, refusing to come to me.
Here I sit weeks later on my throne in my music room, dying. This thrown I once considered a slap in the face to those who considered me less worthy of living because of the tragedy of my face. I had thought with this thrown I would be king in my own world under The Paris Opera House, the most prestigious opera house in all of France. I had even contributed in the construction of this very building I now sit under. I say under for my home is in the fifth cellar of The Paris Opera House.
I have a coffin I may crawl into when I feel the last dregs of life draining out of me. Until then I will sit here and wait. Food has never been a concern of mine. I eat when my body can no longer stand to be denied sustenance. Music fuels my body more than any food I may partake as a meal. I have gorged myself on music for the last thirty or so years. Well, now I am denying myself food as well as my music.
I sleep in that coffin so that I am reminded that my face is a deathly visage. I am not nearly as hideous as the ones who walk above depict. Honestly I am horrid, frightening in fact. This I know for my mother forced me as a young child of five to look in a mirror at what was given to me in place of a beautiful child's face. I had the face of a horribly frightening monster. It had surprised me that the face looking back at me, was, well me. I had not felt monstrous. From that day forward until now I have never willingly taken my mask off other than for hygienic purposes. I no longer fought my mother over having to wear the uncomfortable thing. At that young age I thought if the monster was covered he could do no harm. Little did I realize the monster was not harbored in my face, he was in my soul.
Christine, that sweet angel, she had shown concern for me on numerous occasions. She had encouraged me to eat more. She was of the opinion my lack of eating properly contributed to my skeletal appearance. To know she worried about me had filled me with delight until my ever doubting mind had concocted the scenario of me dying and Christine languishing down in this cavernous grave should something happen to me. She could not find her way out of here. I had made sure she did not ever know of the way back to the surface. At least not until I had released her and that boy.
At first when I took up residence in my new home I made fumbling attempts to play what I had heard in the opera house all those many years ago when I first came to live here. I could play the violin with exquisite perfection. So too, I would learn how to play the piano. As I became better acquainted with the keys on the piano my hands took on a life of their own. Anything my ears can hear I can play. Melodies float around in my head at the most peculiar times. In the middle of the night I must leave my coffin at times to release the music that pounds at my brain until it is written down on parchment. Only then can I go back to my coffin to sleep. I cannot recollect with any clarity when I had decided to build my organ. Once the thought took hold in my mind it beat at me until I gave in and built what my mind foresaw. It really is a grand instrument. I can make myself heard all the way up to the very top floor if that is my wish. Sometimes I do get a bit of pleasure from allowing them to hear the ghostly melodies that filter in through the venting systems.
Everyone feels free to spread gossip and rumors concerning me. Most are exaggerated, some are downright lies. My hair is a bit sparse it is true. That, they do not exaggerate. I do not, in any way, smell like death as Joseph Buquet, that noxious lout, bandied around the opera house. I smell musty at times, not because of any lack of bathing, but because of the humidity and dampness caused by the lake. I have learned of wonderful things for men called cologne. Splashing a bit of that on anything will take the stink right out. My hands do not smell like death. This accusation I vehemently deny. I smell nothing like the grave. I suppose I could have proven that point by removing one of the bodies buried in the catacombs from the time of The Commune. During that time precious little had been done to anyone executed then placed down here for eternity. It the breeze blows just so I myself had smelled that less than pleasant odor of death that permeates some of the tunnels. That is one reason I had constructed new walls. The walls blocked out a good portion of the stench.
Yes, I killed my tormentor Joseph Buquet. I am glad I relieved him of his life all those weeks ago. He had been a thorn in my side for much too long. I could hardly walk along the catwalks without him trying to catch sight of me. Too many times he had followed me down below the opera house. Once I concluded he would not leave me alone it was not a very big leap to deciding he must be dealt with harshly and permanently.
Ah now we come to the Vicomte or rather the former Vicomte. Raoul's older brother. His death is less certain in my mind. Did I set out to end his life? Of course not. Am I solely responsible for his death? I am not 100 sure. I do not think I pushed him but in my anger I may have given him a hand in falling down on the rocks, cracking his head and falling into the lake to drown.
Is it my fault if I had pressing matters and did not look to see if that de Chagny fellow came out of the water? Am I responsible for everyone who steps foot in my domain? I think not. His own actions hastened Philippe de Chagny's end to its final conclusion, not me.
To get back to the matter of my smell or lack thereof, I bath regularly, which is more than can be said for most of the opera house stagehands. I change into fresh clothing each morning. I even dab a bit of my men's fragrance about my person, if I was meeting with Christine. Why waste it on anyone else? I did not care a francs worth for their opinions.
Another fallacy Joseph spread was the absence of a nose. I do have one, it may not meet the standards of what is considered normal, but it is there. I do believe the cartilage in my nose is defective causing it to be a little askew. Pushed to the side a bit one might say. It is just slightly out of line, much like those men who participate in the sport of fisticuffs. The way it sets on my face makes it seem as if there are only two holes in my face instead of a nose.
I do indeed have lips. They are quite nice actually. A bit on the thin side, but not so thin as to be non-existent as the rumors state. I do tend to bare my teeth when I snarl on occasion. That I think is where they get the idea my lips are non-existent. They think my teeth are always showing. For those infidels who occupy my opera house that is what they deserve.
I will agree my complexion is somewhat lighter than normal. What would one expect of a man who spent most of his life underneath the ground without the sun? I am in no way yellow as those superstitious fools claim. My touch is somewhat cold as Christine could attest to that fact if she were so inclined to speak of me to anyone, which I highly doubt. I wear gloves most of the time, for I find it is hard to play when one's hands are as cold as a block of ice. Again this phenomenon is the result of living underground. If I wear my gloves my hands are as warm as toast. I keep fires going year round as it gets quite chilly in this dark, dampness. After a few years struggling to keep fire wood and coal, my necessity to find a better way to heat my home proved to be the spur needed to invent a way to divert a bit of the gas from the lines leading to the opera house. They would not miss what I needed. I have also devised a way to use the gas in my stove and to heat water in the two bathrooms I have added to my home over the years.
I had helped to build the opera house after all so I felt that any comfort I may find from the opera houses resources to be payment for my expertise all those years ago.
Bringing my hand to my face I run it down over my skin. I trace my features with my hand. My right eye droops down a bit making it seem as if my eye socket is sunken in somewhat. The biggest flaw in my face is the mottling of skin. Some places are thickened while others are quite thin. All in all a horrible sight I do agree. If someone had just once looked beyond this face perhaps my life would have been different.
Perhaps if that slave the Khanum had given me...No, no. I will not ever think of that time again. No good can come from those memories. That whole chapter of the creation of death and torture are best left deeply buried in the deepest, darkest corner of my mind. To delve into that bit of ancient history invited ghosts I would rather not have visit me.
Struggling to my feet I walk to my kitchen to see what was left of my meager stores. Something strange is going on in my stomach. Stopping I wait to see if the oddity is repeated. There. That noise. I do believe I am having hunger pangs. Never have I experienced such a normal human result of lack of food in ones body.
Was this my body's way of letting me know it was not ready just yet to lay in permanent rest in my coffin? What dreadful treachery is this? I was sure my time had come. I had already prepared for the event. There are certain things I have already set in motion. I sent Nadir Christine's precious relics. I requested he place the ad in the Époque spouting three simplistic words. Erik is dead. Now this feeble body decides to reject death? No, damn it. I will not have it. I have been fully prepared to die. I was sure I was dying of love. The pains in my chest had weakened me so much I had been sure my death was only a question of when, not if.
I ignored the fact that I had already decided to find something to eat in the kitchen. I would forever deny any weakness in my resolve to end things. It was my stomach forcing me to seek food not any conscious decision on my part to live.
I suppose if my stomach feels the need to betray me I will send it something to quiet its grumblings. Checking through my meager supplies I could not find much. I have not bothered to replenish anything as I thought I would actually be a corpse by now.
As I bit into an apple I mused how ironic that now that I was eager to be a real corpse my body demands I stay alive becoming a living corpse once again. I suppose this little departure from my plans will require I go about securing supplies again. For that irritating chore alone I feel I must hate my traitorous innards. I, the great Opera Ghost, the all powerful Phantom of the Opera had been outmaneuvered by my stomach.
Well I guess I shall make one of my rare visits to the shops just before they close. I do so hope I do not give anyone a heart attack as they will no doubt think me dead as I had informed them that I would no longer have need of such earthly requirements. I must say it was heartening to see a few real tears shed for my upcoming demise. I do think it is because they will miss those hefty fees I pay for their silence that they will miss instead of me.
I suppose I should once again inform poor Jules I will be in need of his services. I do hope my note does not give him some sort of attack. I cannot go to see in person for surely he would have heart palpitations upon seeing one who claimed to be a ghost, who told him of imminent demise, only to go to his home and scare the life right out of him with my walking, talking ghostly self. No, that would not do at all.
Well now I suppose I shall have to finish those damned drawings for all my recent clients. My secret delight in hoodwinking them out of that hefty commission I demand be paid in part ahead of the beginning of construction, has grown flat now that I think I may live just to spite myself. That is what I get for taking things for granted. I should have gone ahead and just done myself in. Everyone would have applauded my exit from this world. Well they would have assuming they ever braved coming down here to investigate my domain.
Perhaps I would be like those Egyptian fellows who have been long gone for centuries, only to be dug up and hailed as the greatest find since...well since the last great discovery. Yes, I think I would quite like that. Since all men look ghastly after some time in deaths domain, they might assume I was a handsome fellow in life.
A/N: I am just posting this to test the waters to see how much interest there is in a fic based on a lot of Leroux Erik and a little Kay Erik. Please let me know what you think. Please review.