A/N: I'm afraid my motives for writing this are entirely selfish, and I therefor allowed for a certain amount of fluff and romanticism which I would not otherwise produce in something meant to be released to the public, however, this story was requested by several people and it just seems easier to load it up here than send it to them individually. There are illustrations that accompany some of the chapters, links will be at the bottom on those chapters. Erik is spelled Erique on purpose, and I have my reasons. Thank you.
Phoebe hung low and huge in the sky, glowing with a yellow-orange light, a pregnant goddess swimming through the rich navy velvet, oblivious to the cares and worries of the little creatures she overlooked. It lit up the mask—set it ablaze in the most frightening manner, a twin to the moon, but angry and vengeful. The face behind it, however, was undemonstrative, and the unnatural voice was silent. The figure to whom the voice belonged stood now on the parapet, impossibly tall and slightly less-black than the night, dusted here and there with a whitish, chalky powder, trapped in the folds and wrinkles of the heavy cloak: a star-sprinkled sky, ready to throw itself at the sun and be consumed in its blissful fire, burned away until only the pure, clear blue light of day remained, leaving the world unstained once more.
The impossible had happened. That voice—the voice of the Host itself, the sweet, strange, frightening tonality which had seduced any who had ever heard it, however briefly—was no more. Ravaged by disease, stolen away! That one truly unique and extraordinary feature to which no other man, woman or child could lay claim had been ripped away. A punishment. A punishment for refusing to die when the way of things dictated that it should be so. This was an error the figure now intended to correct, and it stepped closer to the ledge. A dry, ragged rasp of a cry issued from the mask, and the pale, yellow hands belonging to this skeleton clenched to trembling white fists at its sides. To die this way meant being found easily by any passing by—by a crowd. A horde to stop and gawk at the twisted remains on the stones of the street, its mask lying slightly askew and revealing death's face underneath. To have all those people stare and gape like stupid, bottom-feeding fish at the horror of the face, not even noticing that it was attached to a dead being. No, best to have done with it all in private, where he wouldn't be found, at least not for long enough that his unnatural appearance would simply be thought natural decay. The thin creature stepped down from the parapet and unclenched its hands, the whole skeletal frame relaxing, slumping in defeat, masked face dropping to cravatted chest.
"What, you're not going to consummate our acquaintance, Erique? And you have been courting me for so long—I do believe I feel a bit insulted."
A light, lilting voice shuddered through the bent grotesque like a shock, and he wheeled around, sharp, yellow eyes searching for the impudent intruder. The expression of rage was somehow apparent on the serene leather facade that hid his face. There, across the roof and leaning against Apollo's knee like some knave, some cocksure jackanape stood a mirror figure of himself, or so it seemed. This new phantom pushed itself from Apollo and approached, its steps lazy and graceful, grit crunching under spitblack boots. It wore fine pressed trousers and coat with tails so ridiculously long they nearly dragged on the ground behind it. One hand was pushed deep into a pocket, and the other looked long, frail, and white swinging at its side. It likewise wore a mask—a death's head, perfect mockery of the observer's face, but even more featureless, more grotesque: a true leering, lipless skull. It wore no wig but had upon its head a low topper with a pall-bearer's scarf dangling from the band.
Erique leered at the impudent creature and croaked out, in harsh, cracked, broken tones, "You mock me, monsieur! Come to have a close look at the Opera Ghost, have you? You'll get a better look still." His intention was to employ the Punjab lasso, but he must have been more ill than he'd thought, for his aim fell terribly off his mark. The target was not where he had thought it was; it was closer than he judged. When he missed, it did not laugh but pulled its pocketed hand free, holding a large, silver pocket watch. When it spoke, incredibly, the jaw of the mask moved with its words.
"You have been so enamored of me for so many years, I thought I might come and pay you a visit here upon this facade." It gestured broadly, the bony, white fingers of its hand spreading out over the view of the city. "And I was hoping to take you at last."
There were no eyes hidden in the deep sockets, no lips moved behind the wagging mouth, and Erique knew his master and trembled.
The apparition gave a quiet chuckle and inclined its head a bit, touching the brim of its hat in respect. "Ah, so now you know me. Are you ready, then?" It stuffed its hand back into the pocket of its trousers and cocked the grinning death's head slightly to one side, giving the disturbing impression that the skull, if tipped any further, would topple from where it joined the creature's vertebral neck. All wit left the Opera Ghost, and he wondered if perhaps he had not been more ill than he'd thought. He was not, of course, afraid to die, or of Death itself—in fact, he considered himself a rather devout apprentice in his younger days.
"You have time for this? Do you show yourself to every man before he gives himself to you?" Erique pulled his frame back up to its full height, finally drawing back the lasso and coiling it away under his dusted cloak. His twisted lips curled upward behind the mask as he saw that he was taller than Death by a hand. He had always known. Death came closer, its attitude still cocksure, and it produced from its pocket a cigarette, which it offered to the Opera Ghost. "Every man sees me in the end, whether I present myself to him or not. For time, I have nothing but, do you really think I attend each mortal's failing personally? I am everywhere. At this moment a million eyes are set on me; they see my face, they know or do not know me. I am a kindly stranger come to help them from their suffering. Or an avenging angel to strike them down for their pride."
Erique took the cigarette mindlessly, but only tucked it away into his own pocket, disappearing it under his cloak with the rest of his poor, sickly frame. "You are too late, master Death. I have not jumped to my doom," he sneered and whirled quickly around, striding across the rooftop, one hand floating to his throat as if trying to soothe and comfort his damaged voice. Yes, he had planned to go below once again, perhaps to take a heavy dose of laudanum and sleep until his bones were dust, but now that Death had presented itself to him, his old stubborn fire returned, and he would master the creature by refusing to submit to its one purpose. He would die soon, but on his own terms, when he was again alone.
Of course, he should have known better. One cannot fool Death into leaving him to die in peace!