AN: Hello! This is the Phantom phic I was telling you about! (if you read OAVD) I'm still fairly new to the phandom, so if this seems like a repetitive idea in fics, just tell me! Nicely, though. No bashing it just cause it's repetitive. If you like this one, you should read my other two fics, OAVD and FAV! (READ THEM!) Even if you don't like KH, you might like OAVD. Although, you probably wouldn't like FAV if you didn't like Twilight...
Disclaimer: Do I claim to own Phantom? No, so I must be DISclaiming. That's it Watson! I'm DISclaimingit! Now, be a good little muffin and fix me a glass of limeade. NOW!
I own Charlotte, Richard, the mention of Henry, and Aiden, though he is not in this chapter.
Rated M to be safe. And Erik curses. A lot. Not much in this chapter, though.
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The pale moonlight graced his eyelids with a fondness not found within the glaring sun. He shuddered at the soft, cool breeze that blew around his sleeping form. His rosebud lips parted, whispering inaudible words. His raven hair swayed in time with his heartbeat, a melancholy feeling in his breath. Can this be he? The man she had wanted to hold, all this time? Was she finally seeing him again, the man she loved? No, this couldn't be him, she thought. All of this is but a dream. A dream she certainly never wanted to wake from.
Suddenly, the boy's eyes opened, boring into hers. Her veins were liquid fire, her tongue hot and heavy with longing as he spoke her name.
"Charlotte..." He lie there with her hand in his. Before the dream ended, before she would miss his thoughtful gaze, she said back to him:
"Richard..."
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Charlotte
Her heart beat frantically as she ascended the marble steps. She would not, could not, be nervous. Charlotte was never nervous! And yet she was at this very moment, looking up at the ominous Opera Populaire.
The year was 1885, a good year, she thought, for she felt more happy in this year than any in her 18 years! As she thought about the year, her courage swelled up immensely, causing her to march up the steps in a hurry, eager to get her carrer on track. She was a new costume designer for the Opera, recommended to them by her friend, Angela, who used to be a ballerina at said Opera House. She also hoped she would get to work on makeup, as well, but she'd try her best at designing costumes.
As she entered the doors of the domain, a sudden chill fell upon her. Like history happened here. A history she didn't want to learn about.
But she shrugged off the feeling, convincing herself it was just the breeze blowing past her into the foyer.
And what a foyer it was! She glanced around like a newborn babe, opening his eyes for the first time. Beautiful architecture was in every corner, the details in the stone walls riveting.
And the people! So many different people! She saw maids, ballerinas waiting to be admitted to the stage, the audience, and even the manager, slightly off to her side. She tried calling to him, but...
Unfortunately, she fell flat on her face. Her klutzy nature, she thought, wouldn't get her anywhere in life. Hard as she might try not to, most of the time she tripped across the hem of her dress.
She cursed the ridiculously long skirt as she scrambled up to her feet, brushing at the non-existent dirt, smiling at no one in particular. Now that she had her bearings, she called out to the manager, again. "Monsieur Pierre! Monsieur!" She waved her arms, definitely unladylike, but she didn't care.
Thankfully, the manager sped in her direction, a smile gracing his lips. "Ah, yes, and you are, madmoiselle?"
"Madame," Charlotte corrected, proud of her title, even though she only acquired it through an arranged marrige, resulting in widowhood. "I'm Lady Charlotte Hemingway. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
"Of course! Our new costume designer!" Pierre held out his arm for her to take. She took it, grateful for a balance to hold her on her feet. "Beg pardon, but, why would a lady of your stature want to work here, at our opera? You could very well be a patron, you know, instead of an employee..."
"Well, as you know, after my husband, Lord Hemingway, died, he left me with absolutely nothing. His parents kicked me out of their home, and I've had no where to go, since." She feigned discomfort. She was really living the high life. She never belonged in polite society. "By the way, since I am no longer married, would you mind just calling me by my maiden name, Burkeshire? I'd prefer it. No disrespect meant towards my dead husband, but rather that I would like to start a new life for myself, here at your wonderful establishment." She put on her best flirting face, and she new she'd get what she wanted.
And the face worked. The bumbling old geezercoughed uncomfortably, blushing a soft shade of pink. "Yes, of course, madam. Anything you wish." Charlotte smirked. She loved being a lady, even though she didn't feel like one. Her husband died in his sleep, the doctors had said. But Charlotte new Henry was too young to do that, and she automatically assumed he had been murdered. There was a price on his head, naturally, and whoever killed him probably received a large sum. But she hadn't loved her husband. No, there was only one love in her life, and that was--
"...and here are the dormititories for the ballerinas." Pierre had been talking, but Charlotte hadn't been listening.
"Ah, yes. Wonderful." She said absent-mindedly. "And where, good monsieur, will I be staying?"
"Right here," He gestured down another hall. "At the very end of the hall, on the right. I am sorry, madame, but I have an appointment with my lawyer before the show begins, and I can't help you settle. But if you need anything, just find Madame Giry, or her daughter, Meg. I'm sure they will be of some assistance."
"Thank you kindly, mounsier. I'm sure I will love it here," Charlotte insisted. She curtsied happily, and Pierre bowed. She strood off down the hall, trying to look graceful before the manager's lingering gaze. When she was sure he was gone, glancing over her shoulder to check, she picked up her skirts and ran towards her room, excited to start her new life.
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Erik
"No, no, no, no, no! This isn't right!" He scratched out the last chord. Why couldn't he figure it out?! Erik had been sitting for hours at his organ, trying to figure out this one chord that would not, could notgo into place. "Urghh!" He wrung his head in his hands, feeling even more depressed after this last endeavor. He had been taking a break from composing the music he so desperatelyclung to: the powerful operatic scores, almost always ending in tragedy. Now, he was trying a more softer sideof himself. A side he didn't really want to see.
He was writing a lullaby. For whom, he did not know. His subconscious told him it was for her. He tried to tell it otherwise.
"What's wrong with me?" He sobbed to no one. He knew what was wrong with him. Christine had clearly told him that, even though he had known it all along. There was no doubt of it. Absolutely none.
He sighed. He sat there for a moment at the keys of the organ, suddenly seeming a foreign instrument to him. What had happened to him? For three years now, he had done this. Ever since that night, he sought to write the perfect lullaby, the first attempt ending up in total failure. After his inspiration, his life, his very soul, left him, there were almost no more notes left in his mind. Little music in his heart.
In rage, he stood, pounding his fists on the keyboard, crying out in anguish. "Dammit! Why?! Why?! Why must I fail? Why must I endure this?! Why?!" He sobbed heart brokenlyas he sank to the ground on his knees, bench flung aside. He cried into his hands, clutching the blank music sheets with longing. He longed to know how to fix this, but he knew he couldn't. For three years, he had suffered this way, every day. To him it became a routine. But this time, something was amiss, something hurt him more deeply this day than any other.
He didn't know why. The numbness inside wouldn't leave. His eyes felt heavy, his nostriles flared.
He needed a drink. Knowing this, he stood up shakily, hands pressed firmly on the keyboard, notes ringing through his home.
Yes, that's it, a drink, he thought. Wine always makes it better... Delirious, he struggled his way to the rarely used kitchenette.
Erik pulled wine bottle after wine bottle from the shelves, finding liquid in none of them. He cursed at the empty containers, sobbing sadly.
Finally, Erik thought after he found a vile that swished with wine.
He uncorked the bottle, not even bothering with a glass, and took a long swig. He grabbed a chair at the small table, sitting down. He laid the wine bottle on the table, staring at the contents. Laying his head down against his crossed arms, he stroked the cool glass, gazing at his reflection. He had taken to wearing his mask even in his own home, now. He did not wish to see the face that ruined his life.
Erik saw the tear stains along the surface of the mask. He needed to get away from there, needed to be out in the open. In the light. Why? He didn't know. He normally preferred the darkness. But he longed to see the opera house. Faust was playing tonight. Ironic, he thought.
On a split second decision, he rose from the table, pausing for a moment to adjust the mask on his face. Erik corked the bottle, leaving it there on the table as he grabbed his cloak from the hat stand by the door. He didn't know what would happen that night as he attended the opera. He didn't want to know. All he knew was that he was longing to see Faust that night.
His decision to go outside his domain that night would change their lives forever. Both his, and hers.
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Charlotte
As Charlotte gazed across her new room in awe, she felt immensely impressed. Compared to her previous living quarters, this room was a palace. She ran her fingers over the black and white keys of the piano, sighing in delight. She glanced at her reflection in the huge mirror, resting against the wall. Why they had given her this room, she did not know. It was a prima donna's room, she could tell. A dressing room, but with an added bed. Still, she could not complain, as she was living in a dusty old inn beforehand. She decided that this new life would be good for her, a chance to start fresh.
Her things had already been unpacked, save for the small carpetbag in her hand. She walked over to the bed, and set the bag down. As she unpacked, she looked for one particular item. Soon, after much pulling, she extracted a small picture frame from the sack.
Charlotte gazed at the face in the frame. It was a man, and a very handsome one at that. He had a boyish complexion, but a mature twinkle in his light blue eyes. His curly, raven black locks hung from his face at disarray, messy, yet neat. His lips were thin, but fine, and were parted slightly, as if he was about to say something important.
This was Richard. Richard was her love. Charlotte's only love. In the midst of all the chaos concerning her marriage to Henry Hemingway, she had kept loving the man in the picture. She always would, she knew that without a doubt.
"But your dead, Richard, and there's nothing I can do about it..." Charlotte said aloud. Yes, she thought. Richard is dead. Dead because his own horse was spooked. Because my father set everything up the way he did. My father's a murderer. He murdered the man that I love... Loved.
A single tear streaked her cheek. She walked over to her nightstand and set the painting next to it. "This is our new home, Richard. We might as well get used to it."
Suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck was raised high. She trembled slightly, but dared not look around. She had not heard a door open, but felt as if someone was staring at her. She glanced at the glass on Richard's frame, lit in the candlelight next to the bed.
There was a man behind her. He was paused in mid-step, out of the wall mirror. The mirror? Charlotte thought. How could he come out of the mirror?The man was dressed in a long black cloak, nothing else of his body visible. And his face... It was covered in a full, white face mask.
Charlotte held her breath, watching the man behind her in the picture frame. Her whole body was rigid, and she could sense that he noticed, for he dared not move.
On a snap decision, she whipped around, confronting the man. She caught him closing the mirror, and running fast, out through the door to her living quarters. "Wait!" She called out, running herself. She picked up her skirts and followed the man out of the room, but as soon as she exited, the man was nowhere to be found. She looked high and low, up in the rafters, and every which way down the corridors, but there was no sign of the masked man.
Who could he have been? Charlotte thought blindly. Why hadn't he said anything at all?
"Mademoiselle?" Charlotte jumped uneasily, as she turned to where the voice was coming from.
It was a woman's voice, and a slightly old one at that, but she looked light on her feet. She looked wise beyond any mortal reckoning, and spoke to Charlotte modestly. "Mademoiselle, are you lost?"
Charlotte blushed a pinkish tinge. "No, madame, I am not." A thought came to her mind, and she spoke this thought, with a meek tremble. "Are you Madame Giry?"
The lady smiled. "Yes I am, mademoiselle. And you are?"
"I-I'm Charlotte Burkeshire, the new costume designer."
"Ah, yes. Monsieur Pierre told me about you." She saw Charlotte quiver slightly. "Oh, madame. You shant be afraid of me!" She smiled again, taking her hands gently. "There are many other people here, or things, to be afraid of."
"You-you may call me mademoiselle. I prefer it, among us ladies." Giry nodded understandingly. "But, if I may ask, madame, what sort of things should I be afraid of?" There was slight hesitation in her voice.
"Well," She started, and took Charlotte's arm, walking her down the corridor, towards the foyer. "People wise, you might not want to get on our Prima Donna, Carlotta's, bad side. Now, I don't normally gossip, but there have been incidents where her temper got the best of her." She laughed lightly.
"I-I'll be sure not to, Madame." she nodded to reassure her. "But, what sort of things?"
"Nothing you need be concerned over."
They walked in silence for a little while, Charlotte contemplating over what the elder lady had said.
"Madame?"
"Yes, mademoiselle?"
"Um...uh... Is there, uh, masked man that roams about the dormitories? A masked man in a long, black cloak?" Her voice broke at the last few words.
"Hmm? A masked man?" She thought for a moment, but did not look as if she did not know about him. "There... was, a masked man, that is."
"Was?"
"Yes." She said, as they came to a stop, in the light of the foyer. "He died three years ago. Why do you ask, mademoiselle?"
"Oh, no reason. I just heard a few of the girls gossip about it on my way here. The ballerinas." Giry laughed again.
"Yes, they are quite gossipy, even when a subject has been dead for years."
Charlotte nodded reprovingly. "But, if one, per say, were to see this man, wouldn't that make him a ghost?"
"I should say. He was considered a ghost during his life, anyway. If you do see his ghost..." She giggled girlishly. "Tell him that Madame Giry wishes to see him..." Giry glanced around the crowded foyer. "Mon Dieu, look at the time!" She pointed to the clock situated high above the grand staircase. "The opera will be playing in an hour! I must be going!" She picked up her skirts lightly. "Won't you join me? I can find you a seat in the wings."
Charlotte was slightly startled. "I hadn't expected to see an opera so soon!"
Madame Giry chuckled. "My dear, you livein an opera house! You did not expect that would entitle you to witness the opera itself?" Charlotte shook her head. Giry held out her hand. "Come, let's go find a good seat before all the best ones are taken."
"But shant I change, first?"
"No, no! You look just fine! Come, come! Faust is waiting!" She dragged Charlotte to the stage, where they both awaited the curtain to rise, presenting Faust to the world.
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Erik
The girl had seen him. Gazed at him with her own two eyes. He knew this because she called out to him desperately, wanting to know who he was.
Well, that is certainly not going to happen. What was the girl doing in her room, Erik wondered, as he glided along the rafters of the stage. What was the girl doing at the opera at all?
He crouched down on one of the beams, made readily for human use. He glared down at the stage, the people busying themselves with work. Carlotta was, of course, playing Marguerite. How typical for the managers. Ever since Christine left, they resorted to Carlotta for the leading roles. The Prima Donna was warming her toad-like voice up, preparing for another awful performance.
From the position he was in, Erik could see the audience as well. Aristocrats lined the rows, some ladies waiting to be escorted to their seats. They pranced around in their tight corsets, fanning their fake, powdered faces. The foppish men, in their high colored suits, lace at their chins, joked happily.
Humanity disgusted him, sometimes. Most of the time, really. Did these pretty faces know about hardship, about strife? About anger, hatred? No, he did not think so. They did not know the feelings he had felt. They only knew false happiness, concocted from material things, such as fancy dresses, little dogs that patted around at their feet, houses fit for kings. They only knew hollow laughter, from the shallow jokes and gossip about their own stupidity.
He looked back down at the stage, not wanting to see any more of this painted audience.
There! Erik thought, There's that girl again. He saw her sitting on a barrel in the wings, very near to the performance area. Little Meg Giry chatted happily with her, the girl listening intently.
The girl looked no more than 17, maybe 18 years old. Her soft, golden hair cascaded down to the middle of her back, an ornate hairpin holding it out of her face. He could not see her eyes, but he had seen earlier that they were a warm grayish-blue, the color of rain. Her round, heart-shaped face laughed merrily, bangs bouncing on her forehead. She raised her left hand to cover up her iridescent mouth. From what he could see, dark gray smudges covered her fingers. Either she was a writer, or an artist. Or, maybe she was like him: a musician.
Erik shook his head, doubtful in trusting his thoughts. He had no way of knowing which. He wasn't about to ask her! His curiosity did get to him, though. He itched to know if there was another in the opera who had his same mindset on music.
Who would be interested in him, though? In this face which had earned no mother's love, had frightened people into their deaths? This madman murderer, this kidnapper, this tyrant!?
Erik looked away from her merriment, from the light which seemed to be emitting from her gentle figure. He stood, preparing to leave this spot to find a more comfortable area for viewing the opera. He dusted himself off of the dust and cobwebs. The new manager, Pierre, refused to give him his box five for performances. He was so tired of arguing with the management that he stopped seeing the opera all together. He looked back to the audience. It had almost filled up by now.
A flash of light. An angel's laugh. A face heaven sent.
The audience was graced with the presence, he now saw, of her.
He had only meant to glance at the audience. But her face kept him staring. She could not see him, but he could see her very clearly. She was very near to the stage, and all Erik had to do was call out, making his presence known.
But he dared not utter a sound. He couldn't anyway, for he was rooted to his spot.
She was beautiful, as always, but instead of being the shy, naive face he had expected, he saw a more wiser Christine in her. The flash of light that caught his attention had been the diamonds dripping from her neck, held together by a unique pattern of silver. Her blonde, curly hair was piled on top of her head, kept up by pastel feathers and small jewels. Her blue eyes laughed with delight at her new husband, Lord Ashworth. Erik had acquired information some time ago that the Vicomte de Changy had perished in a terrible fire, leaving the young vimcomtess alone. When news of her wedding to the British nobleman reached his ears, he felt slightly happy. He hadn't believed the vicomte was a suitable husband for her, after the events that took place those three years ago. From what Erik could see, she was happy with her new husband.
He felt tears rise to his eyes. His love was happy. Christine was happy. Erik clutched a hand to his chest, feeling his heart speed up.
"Christine..." He uttered, but no sound came. Yet, she must have felt her name being called, for she looked to him, or rather his spot on the beam. She still couldn't see him, but she had felt something, he knew. She searched nothing, eyes trying to find something that wasn't there.
He fled then. He couldn't think. He tried run away from the stage, away from her judgemental gaze. He was about to leave, when he heard her voice again. Not his Christine, but the girl who now resided in her room.
"Erik, you say?" Erik looked down. The girl was questioning Meg about him!
"Yes, he was always mysterious. None of us ever saw him, no one but Christine..."
"Who?"
"She was my friend, another chorus girl. She went off and married her sweetheart, the Vicomte de Changy, Raoul. I heard he died some time ago, and that she remarried." Little Meg stood on her tip toes, whispering something inaudible into the girl's ear. "But don't tell anyone, Charlotte!" She said where Erik could hear. They both giggled.
So her name was Charlotte. A common name, but none the less, it suited her. He crouched down just above their heads, trying to get a better sound.
"So, why was she the only one who saw him?"
"Well, some of us think they had an affair together. Why she would have an affair with a ghost I'll never know. I heard he was hideous, and that he had no nose! No nose, imagine that! His skin was like yellow parchment, stretched over his bones. He barely had lips. His eyes glowed like fire, and his whites were not white, but black! He was described as a long skeleton, really ghost-like!"
"Oh, well, that doesn't sound too bad..."
"Not too bad! Hah! You are a strange one, Charlotte."
"Well, maybe he needs someone to just love him. I mean, you said he murdered people. Maybe if people weren't afraid of him, and accepted him, he wouldn't have done those things."
"And the cow jumped over the moon! Come now, Charlotte, if you saw Erik's face, you would think otherwise."
"What's a face but skin deep?"
Erik had heard enough. If this girl, Charlotte, ever saw him, she would take back her remark, as Meg said. He didn't want to think on it further. Little Meg, at this time, was called away by her mother.
Erik was already gone. He found a place in the other side of the wings to watch the performance, concealed from prying eyes. He settled into a comfortable position as the show started.
He witnessed Faust for the first time in three years, that night. But he wasn't thinking on that. All he could think about during the performance was what Charlotte had said. No matter how he countered it, her voice still rang clear in his mind.
"What's a face but skin deep?"
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So? What do you think! REVIEW! REVIEW! REVIEW! Thank you.
It was a little shorter than I had originally planned, but I felt this was a good place to finish at. Tell me if I should continue!
See ya!
Hana-chan