A/N: Hello all! I'm so happy to be posting this story! It's been plaguing me since about halfway through Swan Song. Thank you to all who have read my other stories, and, of course, to you for reading this one now. I would like to send unending thanks to Phanatic01 being my unofficial beta and wonderful friend.
Now, back to the present, or the past if we're getting technical. I hope you all enjoy this story. The 1940s is my favourite era, so finding a way to write a Phantom story set there is really fun. I will put the credits for the songs I use at the end of each chapter so it doesn't give too much away. I want to point out that I don't own many of these characters, and that their source material is far from mine, but this story is definitely mine. Have fun!
France, November 1918
Trenches. Damn these never ending trenches, he thought to himself. He knew that everyone else in them was thinking the exact same thing. That and, God, please don't let me be called up next. It would come, though. Eventually they would all be called up to rush over the muddy slopes, to charge across the quagmire of what once used to be a beautiful grassy field, dodging the carcasses of fallen fellows. They would have to look away, not hear the occasional crunch of breaking bones, or the slight stumble that came from tripping over a scattered arm or leg. They would have to hurry across this slippery and sticky plain of brown, grey, and black under the vain pretence that they would make it to the other side to do a damn bit of good. It was ridiculous to think that it would, though. They would all most assuredly be ploughed down by machine gun fire, or, if they made it that far, the rifles of their opponents. Most likely they would have just enough time to come within decent range to be shot down. A veritable wall of corpses would eventually form and both sides would cease their argument to haul away the bodies, only to start it all over the following day.
Sitting in the trenches themselves was not much better. It was enough to make one wonder if the sweet relief of death was any better than sitting in a long hole in the ground. Rain poured over their heads, keeping their feet perpetually damp. God help you if you had any sort of cut or wound. It would be infected two seconds after receiving it, and illness would take you. Yet, when the ground is a swamp of mud and other unpleasant substances one did not dare think about, there was not much to be done.
It made one weigh the option of starving to death in a trench, or meeting the admittedly acrid air above one last time. Their rations were small, though they lost more men by the day to the unceasing charges. Many looked more skeleton than man, and several had become quite the experts on catching rats or any life that dared cross their path. Some of the men wondered if they dared shoot the crows and vultures that feasted on the dead, but somehow knowing you were eating something that had just been ripping the flesh off the man who had stood next to you mere hours before seemed decidedly unsavoury.
So it went, on and on. The ears were ringing from the machinery of death all firing at once, the nose giving up on trying to discern anything beyond simple air, and the eyes forever distant from seeing far too much. Death surrounded the senses, and where it did not, the mind filled in the blanks. Memories of men who had shook your hand were now dead, men who had laughed with you once upon a time were gone, and the boys you rode with to begin this whole battle were either never coming back or now men. Men who had seen it all. Men who had their eyes opened far too harshly to the horrors of war. Gone were the lies home had told them of the glory of battle. Gone were the rose tinted tales grandparents would tell of the old days. Now was only death, destruction, and the greatest yearning to go anywhere but here.
One man in particular found himself longing for this. It was not that he had someone waiting as so many of the other soldiers (that word sounding hollow in his mind) did, or any family to welcome him with open arms, he simply wanted to leave all of this behind. The days where he had wondered if it were all some sort of dream were gone. In fact, he had been awake so long, the days had blended together. Sitting at his post, hearing the ear-splitting sounds of the heavy artillery firing off and then the dull explosion of the impact, he longed for what he remembered to be the most beautiful place on Earth. Home. To him, it was Paris. He knew that more likely than not it would never again look so fine to him as it did now, having long tolerated it begrudgingly as the place where he had lived most of his life. His life. He nearly laughed at this. He felt like he had lived his whole life in this Godforsaken pit. He felt like the life he had dreamed of was only that, a dream. Nothing existed beyond this war and the noise and the smoke and the cries of the dead. He pitied the wounded, envied the dead, and remained like a ghost beside the living.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the world. The air, once thick and impassable, now hung silent and still. It was like the Earth had ceased to turn. He could not bring himself to move, even to breathe or think as this overwhelming quiet reigned heavily over the din.
Then it hit.
No one heard it or saw it, but the explosion wracked the world, and for one instant he thought he saw Heaven.
He awoke. God! he thought. I'm actually awake! He blinked blearily and quickly regretted this decision, but not quite so much as he did his choice to attempt movement. Everything hurt like no one would ever believe. His legs were heavy, his arms felt like sticks of pure pain, his neck refused to lift the suddenly great weight of his head, and his face…God! He cursed again. Ignoring the agonising pain, he let his fingers fumble around to his face. What he felt nearly sent him over the edge of he knew not what.
His whole head was covered in bandages. He had only enough of a gap to see out of and to feel his lips. They felt strange. No longer were they rounded and smooth, but straight and thin like nothing more than a line from which to bend and form words. He began to panic then.
Patting the wrappings carefully proved his flesh to be incredibly tender. His fingers, also wrapped, thankfully worked. They had always been his treasure. Long and spidery, he could play the piano more fluidly than anyone, but this concerned him little at the moment.
After a few excruciating minutes, he managed to sit up and view his surroundings. He was in a hospital, that much was clear, but where began to worry him. Sunlight poured in through frosted windows beside the small cot he had been lying on. He was alone in the somewhat small room which only served to worry him further.
The floor was a smooth tile of alternating white and grey. The walls were of the same grey with white border cutting across the middle. Looking at his bedside table, he noticed a basin of water, bandages, and multiple frightening tools. He worried again over who had left them there so haphazardly until he heard a roaring cheer outside the door to his right.
Clutching his hands over his ears at the sound, he found himself amazed it could manage to bother him so. He had lived through much louder in this war, but nothing quite compared.
Dazedly standing, he found his legs quite thin in the hospital gown he now noticed he was wearing. How humiliating. To wake up from…what had he woken up from? He found his mind struggling to remember the last few moments. He remembered the overwhelming silence, then a terrible explosion.
He felt himself give out, collapsing some on the bed as it all came crashing back.
He had been thrown back several feet by the detonation, a great searing and burning sensation was battling to make itself felt all over his face as he struggled to understand everything else that was going on. He had vaguely felt one of his legs break, and maybe an elbow, but he was not sure. He had laid there, feeling a ringing echo annoyingly through his senses until he was swallowed in black.
He had been blown up, or nearly so.
This thought sent him to his feet and across the room on a greatly protesting leg to a mirror that hung on the wall. He stared for a moment at his reflection, mostly white bandages with a few splotches of red and sickly yellow. Fumblingly, he tore at the coverings, growing more impatient as he went, revealing something that scared him more than the war ever could have.
His face. God! His face!
He could hardly stomach the sight of it. Turning away in horror of what he barely believed to be himself anymore, he tried not to retch. Coming back over to the bed, he crawled under the thin blanket and curled into a ball. He sobbed, ignoring the sting of his tears as they ran into the cuts and burns of his visage. He had never been a vain man, but this…this was reserved for the Devil himself.
He lay like this until finally he had no more tears left in him. Sitting up, he grabbed the roll of bandages from his side table and again wrapped the monstrosity that would be him. Perhaps there was something to be done, he hoped against hope. Perhaps the doctors can fix this. He knew he was kidding himself, but nothing seemed too outlandish anymore.
Just as he finished re-concealing his hideousness, a nurse came into the room. She was small and rather innocent looking. She paused, a bit of her rosy colour leaving her as she looked at the man sitting on the bed. He knew the instant their eyes met that she had seen him before he had awoken. He found himself becoming eerily familiar with that distinct look of fear in her eyes.
'H-how are you feeling, Monsieur?' she asked, cautiously edging towards him.
He did not know how to answer that. He did not remember the names of enough emotions to accurately list all of the jumble he was now experiencing.
'D-did you hear the news?' she asked, still keeping her distance as he stared at her. 'The war's over. It's ended,' she announced, letting a bit of her joy back into her voice.
A hollowness seemed to grow within the center of his chest. It felt like loss. He had lived so long in this Hell, and now he was released from it to…what? He felt his despair turn to anger at the cruel hand fate had dealt him. Of course the war had ended, but now there was nothing left for him. All of those days he had naïvely sat longing for home, and now he had returned looking like a horrible monster!
The nurse must have seen some of this flash furiously in his eyes, for she took a step back and began to tremble slightly. She remained in the room only long enough to remove the tools which had previously sat on the table before quickly scurrying out.
A blinding rage overtook him at her fearful actions and he flew from the bed, rushing to the wall to punch the mirror. He felt the burning of the glass as it cut into him, but ignored it to revel in the sound of the shards clattering to the floor, twinkling in the air as they fell.
Leaning on the wall, he caught his suddenly ragged breath. His mind became calm as he thought over his next course of action. He could not stay here, that was for damn sure, but where he would go, or how he would escape remained a half-hearted mystery to him.
He suddenly felt a reckless power overtake him as he realised he was not bound to anything anymore. He had no war to fight, no home to feel himself responsible for. He could be anything without the rules of humanity to get in his way. How could he claim to be human with a face like this?
Slinking from his room, he made his escape, snagging some clothes from a closet on the way out. Shunning the outside light, he crept into the shadows, basking in their cool, non-judgemental touch. It was then that he vowed to start over and live the life he had always wanted for himself.
Sweden, November 11, 1918
A silver cry cut through the air. Brown curls already beginning to frame a heart shaped face. Eyes of the richest blue looked up into the wondering faces of two very proud and marvelling parents.
'Congratulations Herr and Fru Daaé, it's a girl,' the midwife announced, handing off the delicate child to the anxiously awaiting arms of her mother.
'Oh, Gustave, isn't she beautiful?' she asked, looking to her beloved husband.
'She's perfect, my love. Just like you.' He leaned in to kiss his wife's soft cheek.
The babe looked up to him and laughed. Her voice was enough to make angels weep.
'Hello, Christine Daaé.' He smiled down at her adoringly.
A/N: No song ref yet, but I wanted to let you all know that against my better judgement, I have started a blog on Tumblr for this story. I will answer any questions you all may have, post links to the songs, dresses, and general-ness that I feel should accompany this story. You can find my page by my penname and type fanfic in the search box. Hope to see you all there and I hope you like this story!