Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, but I wish I did. *sigh* This is dedicated to my French horn, Frenchy (Don't judge- I came up with the name in 4th grade!)
Erik looked at the curling brass horn before him. I will learn to play this. I am the Angel of Music! The French horn was said to be the most difficult instrument, but he was sure he could master it. He was a musical genius for God's sake! He could play anything!
He hoisted the horn off his lap and put his right hand in the bell, curved, and wrapped his left hand around the instrument's other end, putting his thumb on the thumb key, and gently curving his fingers on the keys. The brass felt cold to the touch. It seems I have something in common with this horn. He brought the mouthpiece up to his lips and blew.
The resulting noise was a windy sound, nothing close to the distinct tone that he knew the French horn was supposed to produce. He glared at it. Why is this not working? He realized that he wouldn't be playing perfectly as soon as he began playing the thing; it took time to master any instrument. Erik didn't expect to be playing anything much more difficult than "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" until he got the feel for the horn, but this was insane! He sucked in a deep calming breath before he attempted to blow the air into the contraption again. This time, was similar to the last. He would have to do something about this.
After twisting the mouthpiece out of the horn and replacing it in its case, Erik took the boat to the upper floors of the opera house to listen to the orchestra practice. In the shadows, his perceptive sense of hearing heard every word. I wonder if Christine is here. But why would she be at an orchestra rehearsal?
"The embouchure is like this," one of the musicians corrected his fellow orchestra member, making a fish face,"and you buzz like this." He made an obnoxious buzzing noise with his lips.
Erik observed the performers and gained insight on that puzzling instrument. Finally, he decided to return to his lair and try to play the horn again.
He spared the coiled mass of tubing another glare before he raised it to his lips in another attempt to play.
The product this time was fleeting honking noise that died off and sounded almost like a sickly imitation of the full sound the French horns in the orchestra had. Why is this so difficult? On all the other instruments that Erik had come across in his lifetime, this was the only one that he couldn't produce a sound with on his first try. For that matter, his second try wasn't all that brilliant, either. This was very uncharacteristic for Erik, this musical in ability. With a firm, but angry resolve, he decided to attempt to practice his long tones. I'll try to play F- it's the concert pitch. He pressed the mouthpiece to his lips once more and attempted to play the F. The sound was still nowhere close to what he wanted it to be, but Erik was able to keep the sound going somewhere near a F.
This thing is rather heavy. Erik was beginning to feel the strain of the weight of the metal on his right arm. Although he was considerably strong, the weight of the horn was noticeable when it was all concentrated on his arm.
As the weeks wore on, Erik practiced his French horn spasmodically. Although he was eager to learn to play it, he thought it troublesome and truthfully, playing it bruised his ego. Not that he'd admit it to anyone. Something must be done about it. I cannot go on like this; I must either master it or get rid of it!
Erik tried to vent his frustration into a song, but only a French horn could play a song about a French horn. Obviously, an organ or a violin wouldn't do, and what was the point of writing a piece for a French horn if you couldn't play it? None.
He glowered at the accursed thing for what seemed to be the thousandth time since he got it.
"Something must be done with you," he said aloud to the currently silent instrument. Erik swore he caught a glimpse of the mannequin smiling at him. Thank god that Christine hasn't seen me like this. She would only laugh at me if she saw me like this- her Angel of Music, unable to coax a tune from the French horn!
His eyes narrowed. How do I get rid of you?
"There is a package for you Vicomte," said Jules, the butler of the de Chagny household.
"Who is it from?" Raoul asked his servant.
"It didn't say. There was no return address," Jules replied an odd expression on his face. What was that thing the Vicomte got? It was so oddly shaped...
Raoul nodded, feeling confused and followed his manservant to the front room where the package sat.
Sitting on the floor in front of Raoul, plain as day was a black instrument case. A French horn? Why in the world would anyone give me a French horn?
When the confused boy went to pick up his peculiar gift, he noticed an ivory envelope, edged in black and sealed with a blood red skull neatly tied to the handle on the top of the case. He sent me a French horn!? The madman! He truly is insane!
Inquisitively, Raoul broke the red seal to read the note inside. The stationery was, like the envelope it came in, ivory and edged in black. Written in slanting, childish writing was a note:
Fop,
As you can clearly see, I have sent you a French horn. It is a torturous instrument, so I have sent it to you so that I may be rid of the wretched thing. I do hope that playing it will cause you the torment it caused me.
Your obedient servant,
O.G.
P.S. Get away from Christine. She is mine.