Disclaimer: Moonshine owns nothing
Death's Colors
I walk. A soul is cradled in my arms. My work has slowed, since the wars in the world have slowed. The wars continue, but for now, there seems to be a lull in the fighting.
Death is my name and Death is my trade. For that is who I am. It's the truth. I don't lie.
Humans don't get my appearance right, not that surprisingly. They seem to think that I have a skeletal face, wear black robes, and carry a scythe. Not true. My face is perfectly normal, I only wear black robes when I have nothing else to wear (Black makes me look fat), and a scythe would just get in my way. You cannot lug a scythe around the world and carry who knows how many souls. I am Death; not a human. I just remove the souls so that they may move on. Their death date is already set, although occasionally somebody manages to cheat me.
I digress.
First the colors.
Then the humans.
That's how I see things.
I met the first in the chain in 1893. I would meet the last in 1918.
Brown -- Raoul -- Fall 1916
The man was old enough to have a grown child, but young enough to go to war. He was sent to fight at the trenches in the Great War. He had met me several times before I embraced him personally. The man was crouched in a trench, his son kneeling beside him.
By all rights, neither of them should have been there. The man was a vicomtè, one of the nobility of France. But years earlier, he had been in a scandal in which his brother had died and his future wife had been abducted by a "Phantom." He and his wife had escaped and eloped, but the scandal followed them. His title was long forgotten when France needed men for her continued protection in the Great War, the War to End all Wars supposedly. The Vicomtè and his only child, a son, were drafted into the army. He left his wife behind, far from the enemy lines, and traveled with his son to the trenches. To me.
Brown. That was what I saw. The earth upended, passages carved into her skin, the artillery shells creating holes that marred her surface, much as a scar marred the surface of a human's skin. They never truly fade or disappear.
I swept across the battlefield, collecting souls, when I saw the familiar face. The man. He had cheated me before. He was to have died, oh so many years ago, in a torture chamber. I have seen many. In Persia, in Europe, everywhere. The man who owned the Chamber was who made me remember it with such clarity.
I clasped the other souls in my hands, like one who has too many suitcases and has to juggle them. I collected the souls of the dead as I headed towards him, slowly releasing them to the sweet oblivion that awaited them. The Vicomtè knelt in the trench, his son at his side. His time had come. I had come.
As I approached him, he sensed me. It was a stiffening, a recollection, a memory rising to the surface. He knew his time was upon him. His son prodded him, clutching his weapon, a musket or rifle, I don't really know. Don't care. A bayonet rested in the son's hand, twisting nervously. The Vicomtè shivered and nodded towards the son in acknowledgment.
A whistle sounded. All the men in the platoon approached the trench's edge. It sounded again. It was my call. My summons.
The Vicomtè fell before he got even a foot out of the trench. A hail of machine gun fire had dropped him. His son followed quickly after.
I approached them and gently lifted their souls into my arms, cradling them. The Vicomtè stared at me in a daze. "Hello, Raoul. It's nice to see you again." I murmured, walking away with his soul in my arms, memories of Paris filling my mind.
"Do you remember?" I inquired softly of him, gathering souls to be sent on. He nodded weakly. "The Chamber?" he whispered. Hmmm, so he did remember where we had last met. In the Phantom's Torture chamber.
He had been in that mirrored room, with its brown floor, slowly going mad. I had come, summoned originally by the drowning death of his brother. I stayed for the Vicomtè's soul. He was close to the end, or so I thought then. His Christine had saved him though, at the last moment. She had gotten the Phantom to release him. I had to leave then. There were other souls to collect, even back then in 1893 before any of the wars that would keep me busy in the years to come. I would return to the catacombs of the Paris Opera House soon enough anyways.
The Vicomtè's soul faded after his reply to me. I left. I was still busy, even then. Wars always kept me busy. So many souls, so little time.
They say war is Death's best friend. Wrong. To me, war is like an impossible new boss, who is constantly hissing over my shoulder, "Get it done, Get it done!" So you do. The boss does not thank you. He asks for more.
I knew of the events that occurred at the Paris Opera in 1893. I attended some of them. The deaths. You know, of the stage hand and of the unnamed woman who was supposed to replace Madame Giry as the box keeper. As well as the death of the Vicomtè's brother. I thought the whole thing was hilarious.
Ah, now you think I am heartless. I assure you, I am not. I just think differently. To the next color.
Red -- Christine -- Spring 1917
Far, far away from the trenches, a woman sat in a garden of flowers. Red roses, to be precise. In one hand, a knife was clenched. In the other, a telegram informing her of the deaths of her husband and son. A once famous Opera Singer, her ill-bought fame extinguished, except for the scandal that stains her name forever more. I approached. I rarely humored suicide attempts. But this woman, who had destroyed a genius and laid him low, was now giving up her life.
I sat next to her, waiting for her to make a move. She sighed and looked straight at me. She couldn't see me, but she could sense me. Tears were falling from blue eyes. Even in her middle age I could see why the Phantom had loved her.
That's another thing about humans. Their ability to feel. Most of the time, I'm apathetic. Very few humans can make me feel. It's a side effect of living for so long. Emotions just hamper my work. Yet several can cause my emotions. One is a boy with hair the color of lemons. The other a disfigured man who only wished for love.
This is one of the rare times I let my mind wander. Back to Christine's death.
In that sea of red, she peered at the knife. I wondered who she thought of. Raoul? Her son? The Phantom? My thoughts were cut short. The woman plunged the knife into her chest, her life-blood already pouring down it. I waited a few minutes; her soul wasn't ready to be reaped just yet.
Five minutes later it was. I reached down and lifted her into my arms and carried her bridal style. "Hello, Christine," I whispered, walking through the garden, surrounded by red. You could still see where the blood had run down her chest on her soul. "Why did you leave him?" I asked. She had no reply. She just stared. I watched her fade away in disgust. Stupid bitch.
Now you look at me in hatred. How dare I bash one of the most beloved characters of The Phantom of the Opera, you ask. Simple. You have read the book, presumably. I have met the characters. It really did happen you know. Leroux had a funny way of telling it, but the events did occur. And I met the broken Erik.
But more on that later. Next color.
Periwinkle -- Meg Giry -- Winter 1918
I have often thought of the substance known as ice to have a periwinkle shimmer to it. Especially when it froze over the Neva River in Russia. I traveled there because of the Russian Revolution. The Communists were a rather bloody group.
Young Meg Giry had been accepted into the Russian Ballet. And that sealed her fate. For a while she was famous. She became the mistress of a Russian noblemen, she was one of the leaders of the ballet, and she was popular. In short, her life was perfect.
It was not to last.
When the peasants uprose and the Communists took over, her lover fled. She was separated from the rest of the ballerinas. Whether it was a mistake or a deliberate act by the other ballerinas, Meg had ended up fleeing over the periwinkle ice that covered the Neva.
She stepped wrong. She ran over a section of thin ice. Her body fell through, her soul already clasped in my arms. She stared at me curiously. "Who are you?" she asked in her normal perky manner. I blinked. The dead rarely asked me questions. I usually asked them, if I spoke at all. I remained silent most of the time, a kiss on the cheek or a hug of comfort to soothe the souls my only actions as I carried them away.
"Death," I told her bluntly. "Do you remember the Phantom?"
She nodded. A slight blush adorning the cheeks of her soul's face. I stared knowingly at her. The Phantom had a love. He just didn't know.
"Will I see him?" she asked. I smiled sadly and shrugged. I don't know what happens to the soul after it fades to oblivion after leaving my care. I only usher them to it. I never cross the threshold.
You humans don't know how lucky you have it. You're born, you live, you love, you hate. And in the end, you have the good sense to die.
I have seen the broken, the shattered, the forsaken. I have carried their souls to the beyond. Erik though... he had always struck a chord, deep in my memory. The shunned can always relate, or so some souls tell me.
Green -- Madame Giry -- Summer 1900
Ah Paris. The city of love. Or lights. I forget which. Anyway, many years ago, about 1900, I walked through one of the parks, looking for a specific woman. Her time was here.
I saw her. Madame Giry, the Phantom's box keeper. She was leaning against a tree, in her customary black dress, peering pensively across the Siene. She was surrounded by green. The grasses, the stalks of flowers, the green of her hair pin. I approached her. Her soul was sitting up. I like these souls. They have an 'I-don't-want-to-go-yet-but-I-know-it's-my-time' attitude. It's a nice refresher. She extended her hand. I grasped it and pulled her into my embrace. Her abandoned body sank to ground as I carried her away.
"Do you miss the Phantom?" I asked her. Madame Giry stared at me straight in the eyes.
"He was a good man," she said with conviction.
Such faith... you hardly see it anymore.
The saddest person I ever met was a disfigured man. A musical genius, who loved and lost. Do you know him?
Black -- Erik -- 1893, 2 weeks after Christine's Departure
It was pitch black. There were no lights, not even the faintest ray. I drifted through, towards where the man lay waiting for my embrace. His soul also was sitting up, though it wanted to go.
I settled my body down next to his. I looked at him.
"You're Death?" he asked. His face did not bother me. I had seen worse. I nodded a terse affirmative. He looked lost. It made sense though, as he was often described as having a 'Death's head'. And my face was smooth, unscarred. His was different. Even death's face was normal. It must have made him feel even worse.
"Was she worth it?" I inquired.
"Yes."
I shrugged. "Humans," I muttered.
He looked at me with those golden eyes. "Have you ever loved?" he asked. I shook my head.
"Death cannot love," I replied absently. "Are you ready?"
"It is better to love and lose, then to never have loved at all," he told me sadly.
"Are you sure?" I asked. He nodded yes solemnly. I raised an eyebrow skeptical. He laughed.
"You don't believe me?" he inquired.
"I don't believe anyone," I told him.
His face grew hard. "Take me away then. I wish to die," he commanded.
"As you wish," I responded standing up. I lifted him in my arms. I noticed he was crying. I softened.
"You... miss her?"
"With all my heart. With all my soul." A poet's words.
As we walked away, we said nothing, but cried together. He for his unrequited love, I for him.
Poor Erik. He still makes me cry; even now, over a hundred years later. He was a remarkable man.
I don't know why I cry for him. Is it because of what his life held? A life of pain, of hatred? Or is it because I see humanity's weakness in him? Because I see the product of their indifference, their hatred, their pettiness? I don't know.
I only admitted an important fact about me twice. Once to Erik, the heartbroken Composer, the Phantom of the Opera right before he faded, and again to a woman, the Book Thief, who as a little girl crossed my path several times as she grew up in Nazi Germany. I will confess once more to you readers.
Woah... this came off really depressing. I would like to thank Lady Karai for helping me with this. The suggestions really help. As to the year in which the Phantom died, I had in in 1893 so that Raoul's death would work, as the Phantom's death in this story occurs as it does in the book. That is very soon after Christine leaves. Also, I know that the book actually takes place in 1883, but I read this really good adaptation that brought up several very good points as to why POTO couldn't take place in 1883. Anyways I thank you for reading. Please review.