Be warned that the chapter might not be exciting, it may even bore you, but be patient. The intention of this fan fiction is to develop and establish a good pace of both the plot and of the characters' development. I do not intend to rush anywhere and as long as I have an interest in writing this story, I suppose the new chapters will be updated every two weeks or so.


It was a cold, winter night. The twinkling diamonds adorned the black velvet gown of the night heavens and the creamy-pale orb of the moon glowed faintly. The ground slept under the blanket of snow, lulled to sleep by the melodies of nightingales. Only they were bold enough to defy the bitter coldness. The forest was slumbering. There was not a single creature roaming through the woods.

He knew this deep, unfriendly forest could be his only refuge.


Through the secret passages beneath the Opera House, he ran. Like a wild animal hunted by dogs, like a deer by the wolves, he ran for he was chased. He could hear the shouts, echoing from above and all around. Murderer, they called him. Monster, they branded him. He was all that, and worse.

His legs had carried him through maze-like corridors and secret doors more on an intuitive sense for direction rather than being aware himself of the paths he had taken. Heavy defeat he suffered tonight had thrown his mind in total disarray.

Why was he running away then? Nothing mattered to him anymore, whether he would get caught and thrown in prison or executed where he stood. Perhaps he would again end up in some freak show, being ridiculed and humiliated by the crowd as "Devil's Child" like he was when he was little. Or perhaps even more gruesome fate awaited him.

Himself, he preferred death, but on his terms and that certainly did not include the mob that was after him now. He wished for death now that his every reason for living slipped from his grasp. There was nothing left for him anymore, nothing.

After a while, the voices of his pursuers grew distant and he was now walking through cold water, down one of many underground tunnels. This coldness brought him slightly to his senses as he now knew that he took the shortest route in order to reach a small cavern where he found his Friesian mare. In fact, he was directly under the large stables of the Populaire.

It surprised him to find the horse already saddled and ready to go. But to where? The bulging saddlebags rested at each side of the black horse's flanks and behind the saddle, a black, rectangular case was secured. He was confused for he thought he had left everything of importance behind, he just did not care anymore. But it seemed that there was yet a sole person who still thought of his well-being, even after everything.

Madame Giry must have used the commotion and sneaked through the secret passage leading from the stables to here. He could never be grateful enough for all she had done for him in the past, even if this act right now, preparing his horse and all, was solely for the sake of her and her daughter. Only for the purpose of protecting her child, for the fear of what would people do, lest they realize Madam Giry was his accomplice and his benefactor. And yet, the sympathy and genuine kindness she had shown him throughout the years of their acquaintanceship were very precious to him. Madam Giry was the closest thing he had for a friend.

However, even after such a gesture that was perhaps supposed to urge him to escape and live, he seemed unable to make himself to go on. He will disappear from the city, that much he was certain, for he did not want to put Madame Giry nor her daughter in any kind of inconvenience anymore. But after… There was no 'after'.


He had walked for hours on end, it seemed to him, when in reality it couldn't have been more than a mere hour, maybe even less. He led his mare by the reins as it wasn't safe riding her through the various passages and caves. The ground was moist and slippery and he was following the stream of the underground currents, which flowed into the subterranean lake where once he dwelt.

Once outside, he found himself at the bank of one of the numerous canals connected to the river Seine. With effort and, as he realized, with some weariness, he mounted his horse. As she snorted, feeling a familiar weight upon her back, white steam escaped her nostrils and dispersed in the air. He patted her graceful neck soothingly.

"It's alright girl."He said softly, though even to him his own voice sounded strangely hoarse, even tired."Go on."

With a gentle flick of the reins, he set off into the dark, cold night. Even if he was now far away from the Opera House, from behind him he could still see billows of smoke rising high and a blazing light of fire, glowing like a beacon against the blackness of the sky.

It drew crowds of people literally like moths are drown to flame and luckily for him, the streets were deserted and thus it was much easier to move unnoticed. Even if his ventures into the Paris were scarce in the recent years, nevertheless he knew each and every corner of it by heart. And so, through shortcuts and alleyways even the most notorious ones would turn from, he was soon far away from the brilliant city where he spent the last ten years of his life.

Snow descended gently from the vast blackness above.


Les Bois des Soupirs.

It was feared more than those alleys he had passed through. A range of yet unexplored forest outside the capital was a place many avoided. It is said that many had died here and many were lost, never to return. These woods were the final resting place for traitors or anyone you would like out of the way. Anyone at all. It is a place where secrets are buried within the ground and it is said that from one such spot, a tree would sprout forth the next morning. It would wither only when the secret it holds is revealed.

Or so he read once, in some gothic fairytale or another, by a writer whose name was inconsequential to be remembered now. Nevertheless, he was sure that in here he would not be sought.

The coldness crept inside his very bones. Everything that had happened that evening started taking its toll on him. The nightingales went quiet, but perhaps he was only hallucinating hearing their song as if welcoming him inside the bosom of the forest. The silence was welcomed. It was almost… lulling. The regular rhythm of his horse's gate rocked his body, which was now bent over to the point of him almost touching the pommel of the saddle with his forehead, but he seemed unaware of that.

He slid down from the saddle, collapsed back-first against the ground. The snow soaked his clothes. Instinctively, he tried to get up, but found out that his drenched legs were as heavy as logs and that he could hardly feel his frozen feet.

His mare nuzzled against him, perhaps trying to tell him to get up.

He barely managed to sit up, leaning against the rough trunk of a tree. Weakly, he pushed his Friesian away.

"No… go away. Leave me!"

The dark eyes of the mare held him in a momentary, long gaze, until her ears flickered and she suddenly cocked her head upwards. It seemed as if she was listening to something before breaking in a canter and disappeared among the trees and into the mist.

White steam came out of his mouth as he panted. He wrapped his arms around himself, as the cold breeze went under his thin shirt, unbuttoned well under his chests.

He was tired, cold and hungry. But that was nothing compared to the torment that raged within him. His heart was shattered into millions of sharp pieces that cut into his very soul. She was gone. He had lost her forever. His Angel of Music was not his anymore, but belonged to another man from this same, accursed evening. His spirit will never be able to soar again. His song died, his hope died. Again, he was so alone.

He looked up, into the stars, but knew that for a monster such as him there was no place there, only in the deepest pits of hell. He closed his eyes, sighing. He had given up completely. He felt so very exhausted that he prayed his end would come soon. There was simply no reason for him to go on. Not without her. The very thought was devastating.

" My Angel…

My sweet Angel…

You alone can make my song take flight…

it's over now, the music of the night…"

His eyes closed, notes of the song he had written just for her dying on his lips. A silent tear slid down his cheek. The solitude he lived in from the moment he was born suffocated him. And alone, he shall die.

The snow danced through the air, the gentle flakes resting on his face, half angelically beautiful, half demonically monstrous.

"…Whose is that voice

that brakes the gloom of darkness…?"

Through the haze of his almost unconscious mind, he heard a voice, echoing through the forest. His eyes lingered open for a moment and he saw something moving among the trees towards him, through the white mist.

"Whose is that voice

filled with sadness?"

He managed to see the outlines of a person approaching him, riding a horse and head covered in a hood. Soon after, when he was no longer able to differentiate between dream and reality, he felt something warm and small pressing against his cheeks.

"Poor, beautiful creature

What are you doing here, all alone…?"

There it was, that voice again. It was closer this time and it sounded… comforting. Then, he was suddenly overwhelmed by warmth as he was wrapped in a gentle embrace.

"Everything is fine now,

You're safe.

I'm here, nothing can harm you

my words will warm and calm you…"

A sweet, peculiar fragrance filled his mind as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness. And the last thing he saw was an infinite sea of lilac and green – a field of lavender flowers, swaying gently in the breeze.


Claire rode off into the cold night. Again, she had spent her entire evening sitting by the fire, with a blank sheet of paper in front of her. For months, she wasn't able to write a thing and it was becoming quite annoying. That was the reason why she decided to mount her dappled grey Carthusian and wander through the forest for a bit, just so she could clear her head.

She never understood why so many people were afraid of this beautiful place. These woods represented her abundant source of inspiration. Whenever she would find herself having a writer's block or she simply wanted to be alone and thus needed some time away from the bustle of large cities and uptight norms of the Paris' high class society — she never really bothered to follow to the letter — it was here she would find seclusion and her bit of peace.

Oftentimes, she would forget herself, getting lost in all the mysteries this ancient place hid, staying far longer than she intended to at first and each time making her older brother look for her and insist that she comes back home. But staying home was so very boring, therefore, when no one was looking, Claire would secretly set off for Europe's metropolises and cities with lavish history.

But whenever winter arrives, it somehow became a habit of hers to stay in the little house in these woods. Possibly because it looked the most magical then.


After an hour or so of riding, she decided it was time for both her and her beloved Cesare to return to warm. She felt like having a jasmine-and-mint tea and a warm, long bath. However, it was in that precise moment that she heard a soft sound of hooves galloping through the snow. It was so very quiet in the forest that it was very easy to distinguish it and feel startled at something so unexpected.

Some moments later, Claire was surprised to see a horse fully saddled approaching her but lacking a rider. She hopped down from hers, took the reins of the black horse that came to a halt before her and tried to calm the mare down, humming some soothing melody that came to mind.

"What are you doing here, so far in the woods? Hm?"The young woman asked, caressing the mare's long muzzle."Where is your…"

She paused when she suddenly heard a voice, singing. It broke through the silence, carried by the chilly breeze. It echoed all around her and her heart fluttered, like the hummingbird's wings. It was something the most beautiful and yet he most pitiful she had ever heard in her life. And it was very close, she concluded, so she decided to find it.

Deftly, she was in saddle again and made her Carthusian into canter. The black horse followed closely on its own and under a very pale moonlight, Claire could discern the hoof prints it had left on the snow and thus finding the one whom both the voice and the mare belonged to was easier. As she drew closer to the voice, she was able to make out a figure at the bottom of a tree and when she approached it a little farther, she saw that it was a man.

He held his eyes barely opened, but they were full of loneliness, were Claire's first thoughts. When she crouched next to him, she noticed some kind of deformity on the left side of his face but it was impossible to make out anything clearly as of yet. She touched his cheeks, the left one feeling slightly more tender and the skin uneven under her fingertips, as though he had a burn there, was her first impression. Then she held her hand against his forehead. He felt very cold and because she was standing close, Claire could see that he was also very pale, even under the weak moonlight.

Allowing a sigh to escape her, Claire made up her mind right there and then. She could not really leave him there. She could not imagine anyone who would. She brought him closer, to warm him with her body even for a bit before taking off her cloak and wrapping it around his broad shoulders. He was shivering against her and Claire spotted his lips move in one moment, as he perhaps murmured something intangibly, but she could not tell for certain. His consciousness had slipped already.

She had to leave him inclined against the tree again, so she could bring her Dappled-Grey closer. Producing soft clicks in her throat, Cesare understood that he should kneel down so that his mistress could place the unconscious man over its back. After she did so, the horse stood up easily, his owner praising him.

Taking both horses by the reins, Claire made her way to her house.


For the time being, Claire left the horses inside the small stable as they were, planning to return later on, to unsaddle them and give them some more food and water. Right now, her priority was the dark-haired man she had found in the woods.

She was not sure herself how she did it, for he was heavy and she was afraid she might accidentally drop him, but she managed to bring him inside, holding his one arm around her shoulders. Thankfully, the stables were joined to the little house and so it was only a short trip from there, through the kitchen and into the living room, albeit arduous somewhat.

Onto a couch she let him lie. There was no way she could take him up the stairs and into the guest room where perhaps the bed might have been more comfortable. But it was warmer here, near the fireplace.

Taking off his boots, Claire realized the man's feet were icy cold, his toes almost entirely white, but it did not seem he suffered from serious frostbite. His attire, a thin white shirt and black trousers, was nearly all wet. He looked so very pale, as if all the color was drained away from him.

She nodded to herself. There was no room for timidity now.

Tying her long auburn hair in a ponytail with a black ribbon on the way, Claire hurried up the stairs, to fetch some of her brother's clothing, blankets and a pillow, before she was back running. Carefully, she lifted the man's head and placed the pillow under it. When she let his head rest, the flawed portion of his face was turned away from her, hidden in the soft pillow. For now, she did not pay much attention to how he looked, as she changed him into dry clothes with some effort and with as much care as she could, hanging his own on a drying rack near the fire.

Once she covered the man with a blanket, making sure his feet were tucked in, Claire made to the kitchen twice and back in a rushed pace. From there, she brought a basin, a big ceramic pitcher with cool water and several pieces of cloth and some towels. The second time she came back from there, she carried two wooden boxes in her hands, one longer and the other one more square-like and apparently smaller.

Half of the pitcher's contents she poured inside a black kettle before letting it hang at the fireplace, but only for couple of minutes, to avoid the water being too hot. She still needed to mix it inside the basin with some more water from the pitcher to achieve a pleasant, warm temperature. Claire warmed the man's feet and hands, especially ankles and wrists, by placing the damp cloth over them. She had to improvise like this, for it was impossible to have them immersed in warm water.

She kept soaking the cloths, leaving already used ones in front of the fireplace to dry and was especially being alert of the water's warmth, keeping it as ideal as possible. He was tucked in well and at one point, he stopped shivering. Seeing how his feet and hands restored coloration after a while and that they remained mildly warm, Claire concluded it was sufficient.

She wiped off his hands and feet with a towel and turned around towards the coffee table. Opening the lid of the smaller box of the two she had left on the table, Claire revealed several small bottles inside. Some contained either clear or a yellowish type of liquid inside, while there were a few that were empty. She chose one of the empty vials with flat bottom, no bigger than her thumb, and uncorked it. When she opened the longer box next, she searched through small bottles arranged on soft velvet in two rows, each held separated from the other. They were similar to those in the other box, only these were made from dark amber glass.

Of course, it was easy to find the oils she needed because each small bottle was labeled, the names written in a flowing, fluid handwriting. What she needed primarily was an essential oil for warming and stimulating blood circulation and after Claire had added several drops of it inside the small vial, she chose another two oils which help in relaxing and in relieving muscle stiffness and joint aches. Finally, she added up two and a half teaspoons of carrier oil, closed the vial firmly and shook it until the oils blended nicely.

Using the oil she just made, Claire rubbed the man's feet, massaged his toes and fingers, his wrists and ankles until her hands hurt, to make the circulation run. However, she already dreaded what would happen when the fever kicks in. After all, who knows for how long he had been roaming outside, in such thin and wet clothes. It was fortunate she found him before he froze to death.

Claire perched at the very edge of the couch, next to him. He was lying with his head turned, so that only the right side of his face was exposed. Rather curious by nature, Claire felt intrigued by this man. He appeared to be her older brother's age, perhaps even younger, but she had never seen someone like him before. And that did not solely mean the condition of his face.

It was not as bad as she thought it would be, the defect on the other half of his face, only slightly startling. She thought she would certainly recoil at the sight of it, once she sees it under light, but that was not the case. After all, she had seen her fare share of misery during her numerous travels, and although she would never be grossed out when she would come across people of similar and often worse cases, she would naturally be at least a bit upset.

As she was pondering this, she turned his head gently so she could have a proper look at him. Claire was right earlier when she thought the markings on his face resembled burns, but then not quite. The skin was wrinkled and warped and the misshapen blemish spread over the large area over the left side of his face, expanding over his cheek, half of his forehead and even on a section of his head. Only the lower portion around his chin, on the left side was as normal as the opposing one, smooth and clean-shaven, and his lips were left greatly untouched.

One could say that he was missing a left eyebrow, as he was missing sideburns on that side of his face. It was barely noticeable and only one part of it, being so very fair in contrast to his natural, dark right one. The burn-like deformity was more prominent on a few places than the rest of the scarring and created an unsettling impression of his skin having started to melt, but then stopped halfway and desiccated. It was under his eye, looking as if something was pulling at the lower eyelid and next to his nostril, while there was a long swelling that went along his cheekbone and upwards.

Claire followed this protuberance with inquisitive eyes, tipping his head gently aside and found out that it finished along his temple. It appeared as though something was lodged underneath his skin. She also discovered that his ear was mutilated to some extent because of this deformity and she spotted a single, rounded bump directly above it. There were a few more, similar lumps around this bulge, only smaller, and the skin on the bald, left front section of his head had various wrinkles and small perforations on it, exactly how the rest of his flawed face was.

When she touched the exposed side of his head with hesitant fingers, moving away several dark strands that fell over it from the other side, it indeed felt rough and uneven. But, the skin was unexpectedly tender and soft, and in contrast to the rest of his fair complexion, only this distorted segment of the man's face and head was of pale reddish color. Also, the disfigurement made the left side of his face seem a bit swollen.

Claire found herself studying the man's features far longer than it would be considered appropriate. In truth, when she was now looking at his face as a whole, she realized he was actually relatively handsome. Still, he also had a look of a man who attracted trouble and this notion remained exasperatingly constant. Was it precisely that, that made her curious of him?

Her lips tugging at the corners, curving in a smirk, Claire left her unforeseen guest's side and went to the stables, to tend to the horses. She took a note of the saddlebags and a case that were attached to the black Friesian mare, but decided not to pry too much and simply put them away in the little hallway of her house, after she got back in the house. She was thinking that if he decided to leave once he gets better, he might want to have his things close by.

The man on the couch was breathing heavily, deep asleep. The color returned to him, but Claire noticed a few droplets of perspiration at his temples. She pressed her hand against his neck and realized he was slowly beginning to burn up. Taking a brief glance at the clock on the fireplace, she learnt that the dawn was less than five hours away. Sighing, she placed a wet, cool cloth upon the man's forehead and wiped his neck with another.

For the rest of the evening, she repeated this process several times and tried to remain awake. His condition wasn't changing much, neither for better or worse and the slightly higher temperature appeared to remain constant. From time to time, he would mumble something or just move his mouth and say nothing. Claire tried to make him as much comfortable as she was able, making sure not to worsen his fever by covering him too much.

She wondered if it would be actually better to move him upstairs in the morning. Now that he wasn't cold anymore, staying near a fireplace wasn't such a good idea. Contemplating this, her gaze rested upon the dark-haired man the whole time, consequently lingering on the blemished side of his face and after a while, she began to doze off, curled in an armchair.

Claire's eyes snapped open as she was startled by a noise coming from outside of her door. Someone was knocking.

Pale light of early morning was spilling inside the small, cozy living room through the windows. This made the young woman momentarily confused. What the devil, it was deep in the night just a minute before! She possibly fell soundly asleep for around an hour and a half, but the sudden change in light arrangement was annoying. Rubbing her aching neck and stretching her legs, she glanced towards the couch, the man in it still sleeping.

There came the rapping again, rushed and impetuous. Furrowing her brows, Claire stood up.


Les Bois des Soupirs - The Forest of Whispers (liberal translation)