A/N: For those of you that are new, welcome! For those of you that have read the first story, welcome back! This is the sequel to "Behind the Trapdoors", looking at the second son of the Phantom of the Opera. I'm not going to give away any more details, so read on and enjoy! Please don't forget to review and I'll see you all next time! (PS - I don't own "Phantom of the Opera", just the OCs).
Of Phantoms and Men
Chapter One – The Damned and Broken
July 10, 1914
Paris, France
Chevalier Residence, Bois de Milbert
"War is brewing."
The tea kettle steamed and whistled furiously, alerting the maid of its presence. The woman hurried away, leaving the couple alone in the dining room for the time being. Their dog trotted into the room, plopping down beside his master, panting as the man scratched behind his ear.
"Prophesying again, Suri?" the gentleman asked, cocking his head at his toffee-skinned wife. She had piercing green eyes, the same as her father's, and wore her midnight tresses upon her head in an elegant bun.
"If you wish to call it that, then yes," she smirked. Her smile vanished in an instant as she shook her head. "I'm worried, Gerard. If the war should come through Paris, what will become of Alain-?!"
"There hasn't even been a war proclaimed, and you're already panicking," he grinned at her. He reached for her hand, his eyes becoming somber as he leaned over and kissed her cheek tenderly. "Whatever happens, we shall face it together."
She smiled back weakly, doubt still plaguing her. Her head turned at the sound of the front door opening, two sets of feet pattering across the floor.
"Hello, you two!" a red-headed beauty beamed at them, her opaque eyes large and enchanting. "We just saw Marie at the park!"
"Marie! Marie!" the little boy chanted, running to his mother.
"Hello, my little darling!" Suri cooed, gathering the five-year-old child in her arms. "Was Alain a good boy?"
"An angel," Madeleine giggled. "As always."
Little Alain Chevalier grinned brightly, delighted that his mother should hear nothing but complements about him. He shared his mother's stunning jade eyes and his father's chestnut locks, his skin a light olive tone inherited from his grandfather and mother before him. He giggled as his seven-year-old pet, a mutt they had adopted from the streets which they had named Franc, leapt up and lick his face, a bountiful amount of slobber sticking to his cherub cheeks. "Franc! Don't drool on me!"
The dog barked happily, one brown ear bent while the other beige ear stood straight at attention.
"Gerard, do you want me to fetch Erik?" Madeleine asked, smoothing her skirts out.
"Would you mind?" he nodded. "Supper will be ready shortly, and you're the only person he won't try to…hug," he said delicately, not wanting his little boy to hear the term "Punjab" just yet.
"I certainly hope he's not still in that foul mood," Suri frowned. "I worry about him when he gets like that."
Madeleine gave them a rueful smile, shaking her head at them, her curls shaking around her pretty face. They made her look as if she were still fifteen and not twenty, and her dear brother Gerard was certainly finding it difficult to accept that his baby sister was now a grown woman who was starting to see her best friend's brother. "Don't worry…I'll get him to come."
~OG~
Dead…he felt dead inside.
The week had been filled with nothing but misery for Erik Chevalier the Second, son to the legendary figure most remembered as "le Fantome de l'Opera". He never expected for life to be easy – his father's had been anything but, and it was all thanks to the deformity they both shared. A head that contained the resemblance of a skeleton for a face was sure to send anyone's stomach into a tizzy, and Christia de Chagny was, unfortunately, one of those people.
"Is this what it felt like, Father? Being rejected…despised…"
He pounded the keys of the organ harder and harder, fury surging through his veins. He could still see it, the memory of what happened stinging just as freshly as the moment it occurred…
"Erik, I know it's you," Christia giggled as a tall, thin figure approached her in the dark corridors located towards the rear of the Palais Garnier. "Why don't you come out?"
"I can't," he answered lightly, making sure to keep his distance. He wore his black mask, the one that covered his whole face…it had been foolish of him, wandering around without his face-mask, the one that was practically a second skin, but he had wanted to play "Opera Ghost"…he hadn't counted on Christia wandering these parts and catching him.
"Why not?" she pouted, her bottom lip puckering out in an irresistible way.
He sucked in a breath, wishing to be near her. He had given her lessons on how to improve her voice over the past few years – as her dear childhood friend, Erik Chevalier – and helped her boost her career – as the mysterious, frightening Phantom – all the while, he harbored an intense desire to have her as his own. Gaspard, the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac, also wanted theprima donna. Three years his senior, and an old childhood friend, he was a handsome man with dark hair and stark brown eyes, who wooed Christia constantly. Erik never imagined he could grow to hate someone he knew so well, but he did – it had become competition between the two young men – unspoken, of course, and playful before others, but they both shared dark, competitive glances, knowing full well that this was not a matter of simply earning the young Vicomtesse's attention, but for her heart and hand.
"Believe me, Christia, it is for the best."
"Are you pretending to be that horrid 'Ghost' that haunts this place?" she laughed carelessly, its sound both beautiful and painful as he heard her call him "horrid". "Oh, Erik, you're so strange."
"Yes…I suppose I am," he said slowly. He turned away, hoping that would be the last of the conversation, but before he could blink, she was upon him, wrapping her arms around his chest from behind. He froze, his eyes wide with shock. "Ch-Christia-?!"
"You never seem to like being touched," she murmured into his back, sending little shivers down his spine. "You're so secretive…why won't you let me in?"
"Pandora ought to keep away from the enticing box, don't you think?" he choked, loving the feel of her body against his, though his mind prayed fervently that she might let go before things got worse. He heard her sigh as she removed her arms from him, though she kept one hand upon his back.
"Erik…you have such a soothing voice…won't you sing something?" she pleaded sweetly.
"S-Sing something?" he asked, turning his head just so when suddenly, he felt a hand upon his mask and then, it was gone.
A mortified scream filled the air, and all he could see were those beautiful blue eyes staring at him in wide-eyed terror, the mask clattering to the floor.
"No…" he whispered, his heart breaking, his stomach dropping, his face twisting in agony. "NO!" he roared, snatching the mask and running off into the darkness. He could still hear her screeches, see her pale face as she gaped at him, as though he were some disgusting, monstrous creature that had materialized from a nightmare…
The tinkling of bells snapped him out of his flashback, roughly returning him to the present day. Growling, he arose from his seat and stalked out of the mausoleum-like room. He lived down here in his father's underground home most days, loving the privacy it offered to him. He hadn't changed much – he loved the design and style of the time period his parents had lived in, however, he did add a few modern elements, such as electric lights and improving the running water system. The switches proved to be quite handy, though he did enjoy the soft, gentle flickers and muted glow of candlelight. Candlelight was kind to him…so was the darkness…they both enveloped him like a warm, welcoming cocoon that didn't care what he looked like, that wouldn't hurt him…like Christia had…
He had locked himself in his room in his home aboveground, not saying a word to his family or the two servants. That was two days ago…he had drowned himself in composing and music and self-loathing poetry…oh, how he wanted to curl up and die!
"Go away!" he bellowed at the knocking on his door.
"Erik, I should like to say something most inappropriate to you for your rotten attitude, but that would offend Christia," Madeleine snapped back at him.
He paused a moment, processing what she had said. "…Christia?" he asked softly.
"Yes, she's here to see you, so let her in, your great oaf!" his sister shouted.
His whole being began to quake as he snatched his skin mask and secured it onto his face. He forced himself to approach the door, his thin fingers unconsciously slicking his hair back. Tucking in his shirt hastily, he unlocked the door, catching sight of the two girls waiting for him on the other side. "Ah…hello," he said awkwardly.
"Hmph!" Madeleine sniffed contemptuously, stomping off in the opposite direction, leaving the two of them alone.
Christia was a vision in blue, the dress complimenting her eyes. She wrung her gloved hands together as she stared at her shoes. "…Erik…I…I'm sorry for what I did…" He said nothing, a sinking feeling filling his chest. Something didn't feel right. "I…I just wanted to tell you that…and…and that…" A sob was caught in her throat as she wrenched her glove off of her left hand, exposing an extravagant, diamond-studded ring on her finger. "Gaspard proposed," she said, finally lifting her face to see his. She gave a little sigh of relief – he could only assume it was because his face was covered – and tripped over her words as she fought to explain, "You have to understand, Erik, I really do love him, and he's…he'll take good care of me…I just can't…I can't bear to see-…that is, you and I, we'd never-"
"My music," he said without a thread of emotion in his words, feeling a dagger of unyielding shame and heartache stab him through the chest. "I can't stop now…my music is…incomplete…"
"Erik-!" she called out, but he slammed the door before she could say anything else. He stumbled over to the piano, his fingers flying over the keys in a frenzy as his mind swirled…he couldn't remember when or how he fell unconscious, but when he opened his eyes, Suri and the maid, Madame Couture, were standing over him and tucking him into his bed.
"Erik, are you all right?" Suri asked, her green eyes focused on him with motherly concern. "Erik, I'm begging you, say something…!"
"Hello, Erik," Madeleine said softly, hopping out of the boat once she arrived at the dock on his side. "I'm surprised you didn't snap at me to leave the minute you stepped out."
He pressed his thin lips together, looking away from his little sister's face.
"I see you're wearing Papa's favorite mask," she noted, seeing the white mask that left only his eyes, mouth and chin exposed. "…Gerry's worried. You're becoming like Papa…at least, the old Papa, the one we never saw or knew…the one Mama would tell us stories about."
Still he said nothing, his mind flooded with memories of his father showing him around the Opera House, playing pranks on the ballerinas and stagehands.
"I know it's hard, Erik…but we're here for you. We love you…"
"I fooled myself, you know," he murmured, facing her at last. "I let myself think that I could find a way to get her to love me…I was wrong, so very wrong…" He covered his face with one hand, shaking his head. "I shall never let myself be fooled again. No one can love this face."
"I love it," she frowned. "Don't I count? Christia can go and throw herself into this lake for all I care – she never was worthy of you. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Erik…you'll find the right one when it's time." She gasped as her brother fell to his knees, burying his face into her skirts as he wept. Her heart melted instantly and she embraced him. "Oh Erik, don't cry, not for her," she said softly, running her fingers through his dark hair. He was a grown man, twenty-two years old and in his prime, but he reminded her of a child when he wept, innocent and in need of a shoulder to cry on. "All right, then…let it out…my poor, poor Erik."
