A/N: Oh. My. God. Not only did I receive my long-awaited copy of Kay's "Phantom", but I also got a copy of Leroux's orginal novel!! AAAAAAAAAH-excuse-me-while-I-die-of-complete-and-utter-ecstatic-delight!! Ahem. Anyway, this fic...I always liked the thought of a younger Erik running about behind the walls of the Opéra Populaire and getting up to no good. I suppose this one is more closely linked with the film version in some parts...A few reviews would be nice, too ;).
I have not mysteriously acquired ownership of the Phantom of the Opera and all related characters overnight, so it still belongs to Leroux/Webber/Kay. Enjoy!
Mist swirled in curling tendrils over the glistening cobblestones of the Parisian streets, illuminated eerily by the moon above. The iron streetlamps shone dim orange circles around themselves, making the surrounding fog and mist appear even thicker and almost opaque. The main streets were quiet and deserted...but further on, not all was obscured by the fog; out of the mist, looming up above the sea of pale, hazy white, rose the great, majestic form of the Opéra Populaire. Its windows were dark, since the late-night rehearsals had long finished, and its staff and performers were asleep. This was the hour of complete, unnerving stillness that nobody was awake to see...
Inside the opera house itself, the stage was empty, the lanterns unlit and the cavernous halls echoing with silence. The only sounds came from the older wooden planking as it creaked and popped, warping from the cooling air. Everything slept...
Everything, that is, but one odd creature that was hiding inside a hollow wall of the opera house's small chapel.
The creature in question was nothing more than a bundle of dirty, thin clothing, white skin, and sharp bones, huddled in a corner. It was trembling violently, its breathing irregular and uneven as it shakily raised its black-haired head. A pair of terrified, tearful amber-gold eyes peeped over two bony knees, darting from side to side, unaccustomed to these new, oppressive shadows. The young boy's thin frame shook again, tears of fright spilling from his eyes, rolling down his hollow, unusually papery cheeks and past his pursed, white lips. This place was so big, so dark and grand...the deep, impenetrable blackness frightened the child as he sat alone in the secret stone passageway. His white, skull-like face with its grotesque hole in the place of a nose was even more drained of blood than usual, almost luminous in the dark as he contemplated what would become of him. He honestly had no idea of his future - he still had difficulty coming to terms with the fact that he was free from the gypsies that he had been with that very morning. This small boy who sat crying and afraid in the darkness was already a murderer...only a few hours ago, his mind had been filled with a blinding fury and bitterness, and he had lashed out and strangled the man who had held him captive. He remembered the greasy gypsy's dying gasps of shock and pain, the pure animal rage that had enabled him to pull the rope tighter and tighter around the man's neck. What had scared him the most was the secret knowledge that it had felt good...it had given him a sense of vindictive, dark satisfaction to see the large gypsy who had so often beaten and tormented him choking for breath as the life left his eyes. He knew this feeling was wrong - it was a very wrong feeling to have indeed! One should not enjoy doing such a horrendous and terrible thing! The small boy rested his forehead against his kneecaps. He was wrong. Everything about him was wrong: from his actions to his feelings to his ghastly face, the face that had robbed him of his mother's love and his freedom. If that ballet girl had not helped him, who knows what would have happened to him by now...
At the moment, though, he was alone in the darkness and he did not like it one bit. He was only a child; he was naturally afraid of shadow and gloom. Who knew what lurked where the light could not reach...? Who knew what manner of hideous monster other than himself could be hiding in this very passage? A child's mind is very imaginitive indeed when it comes to horrific beasts - but this young boy's imagination in particular was astounding. The creatures and people he dreamed up could become so real to him that he could completely lose himself in his own world, the world inside his head. When he slept, this world opened itself up even further to him, and helped him to escape from the dire bleakness of his miserable life...
Sleep...oh, sleep. It would be the only way to escape this darkness. If he stayed awake, he knew this gloom would never end. It was as if he was in a parallel world, where the night lasted for ever, and the only means of escape was through sleep. He would close his eyes now, and wake to find morning...yes...
Oh, but this darkness! This awful, murky blackness! How he hated it - how it terrorised him! In the dark, he was faced with his worst fear: himself. There was nothing, no colours or light to distract him from his own thoughts, from the dreadful little voice in his head that constantly asked questions about why he had been fated so! The skeletal boy gave a tiny sob, grabbing the rough sack he had so despised, and pulled it down as far over his head as possible. The material scratched at his thin, sensitive skin, but he paid it no heed - it provided a closer, safer darkness for his poor, battered self. He did not care that the eye-holes were on the other side, for all he wanted was the sense of security the makeshift mask gave him. Wrapping his arms around himself for comfort, in an unknowing mockery of the mother's embrace he had never felt in his life, the boy tucked his head closer to his knees, curling into a ball. He began to rock from side to side, crooning a broken, obscure song to himself, a haunting, wordless lullaby that echoed tremulously through the stone passageway. Slowly, painfully slowly, the strange child fell asleep, knowing that his life was forever changed.
Young Antoinette Durand hurried down the dim corridors, the light of the dawn casting a thin, feeble glow over the floorboards as she made her way quickly and quietly to the chapel of the opera house. She had risen as early as she possibly could, hoping to visit the chapel before anybody noticed she was out of her bed. The ballet mistress, old Madame Rousseau, would surely go mad with rage if she discovered Antoinette was absent...
The young ballerina ran light-footed down the long corridors and around corners, carrying in one hand a lantern and in the other a small tinder-box. She had a feeling of great, heavy dread in her stomach; she knew she had undertaken a huge responsibility, and it had a chance of ruining her. It was as if she had secretly obtained a wild animal, a strange pet that came with immense obligations and needed to be looked after more carefully than she could ever manage. For last night she had brought a child here, a boy even younger than herself, who had been treated like an animal but nevertheless required proper care. She did not know how on earth she would ever cope; she was training hard to become a ballerina here, and now she had a dependent small child that desperately needed her help and attention. Nobody could possibly help her with him, as she could never tell anyone he was here, for she knew she would get into grave trouble. Could it be described as stealing, what she had done the previous evening? Robbing a travelling fair of one of their exhibits? No, she had merely been setting the poor boy free - he had killed, but in his own defence, and would be put to death himself if he was found...and she did not want to think of him trailing around the streets of Paris alone and helpless. So here she had brought him, to the Opéra Populaire, and hidden him in a secret passage that she had found many years ago. But how would she ever manage to take care of him? Surely he would be discovered...
Antoinette entered the chapel, swinging the heavy wooden door shut behind her. She was barely fourteen and yet a huge burden had been put upon her shoulders - the burden of a child to support, and the conscience that came with it. Antoinette paused in the middle of the chapel. She had been about to call for him, but she did not know his name - if he had one. Instead, she walked over to the arched mural on the wall and pushed on it. The painting swung back like a door; there was no wall behind it, even though it appeared as if the painting had been done on one. A dark corridor stretched away to the side beyond the little door, and Antoinette hesitantly stepped through, looking all around. Her eyes were taking a long time to adjust to the gloom, and her heart began to pound as memories of the large man choking at the end of a rope held by a small, thin boy surged up. She hardly knew this child...what if killing came easily to him? What if he tried it again...?
Something rustled in the darkness, and Antoinette found her gaze sharply drawn downwards in the direction of the noise. She felt relief wash through her as she saw the boy there, his dirty, bruised body curled up by the wall. She noticed he wore the sack over his head once more; secretly, this made her feel more comfortable, not being able to see that fearsome face. The other young ballerinas had talked at length about the Devil's Child, reminding each other of the hideous vision they had seen. Some of them had even had nightmares that night of the boy's corpse-like face. Others, however, had scorned the credibility of the Devil's Child - they had said that he was probably just a poor boy covered in make-up, about as genuine as the Bearded Ladies they had seen (who had, in effect, not been ladies, but men wearing dresses). Antoinette herself had been more shocked by the child's treatment than his appearance, but still she could not deny that the vision of him had made her shiver.
Slowly, she knelt down, and touched the boy's bony, cold shoulder. Immediately the child jerked awake, body curling up even more as his muffled voice whimpered: 'Pray don't hurt me...I didn't mean to do it...he beat me, and I only wanted him to stop -'
'It's me,' Antoinette told him comfortingly, though uncertain whether he would recognise her. He sat up shakily and then turned the sack around over his head, positioning the eye-holes over his eyes so he could see. When his strange yellow eyes took her in, they widened, and he relaxed a tiny bit, though he still remained huddled by the wall.
'You...was it you who let me out?' came the soft, juvenile voice. Antoinette nodded silently, then after an awkward pause, put the lantern and tinder-box down onto the floor in front of him.
'I brought you a light,' she explained. 'I'm sorry I did not leave one with you last night. Are you very hungry?' The boy nodded wordlessly but with great vehemence. She knew that he was probably not very well-fed with those gypsies; his skeletal, wiry body was definitely proof of it. 'I will be going to breakfast later, and I shall bring you back something to eat.'
She could not determine the expression on the child's face, and he did not speak, only turning his head to one side slightly. She watched him curiously. 'What is your name?'
The boy blinked, his long, slightly dusty eyelashes catching on the sack's eyeholes. 'Devil's Child,' he said simply, as if wondering why she did not know. Antoinette shook her head with a shocked frown. 'No, don't say that - you are not a Devil's child! Tell me your real name.' The boy appeared surprised at her reaction, and even more bemused at the fact that she did not consider him a monster. People usually took pleasure in calling him a beast, a demon, hell-spawn...but not this girl, it appeared...
For a while he seemed to think, looking away from her. His pondering despaired her; how could a child not know his own name? When she began to think he either had no answer or had forgotten the question, he mumbled something quietly.
'What did you say?' she asked him.
The sack turned and looked up at her, two yellow eyes peering through the holes. 'Erik,' said the boy, sounding more bold and certain as he repeated his name once more: 'My name is Erik.' An old memory seemed to surge up in his mind at that moment. 'I can write it, too,' he declared with timid pride. 'It ends with a "K".' Antoinette raised her eyebrows and nodded, looking impressed to put him at ease.
'Can you? That's very clever,' she said, and the boy, Erik, flexed his bony shoulders in modest embarrassment. 'My name is Antoinette.' Erik nodded his head slightly in aknowledgement, then looked curiously at the lantern and tinder-box. Seeing the direction of his gaze, Antoinette said: 'Do you know how to use it?' Erik nodded his head again, with confidence. 'But be sure you're careful with it; you don't want to set the Opéra on fire,' she warned him.
Erik looked up sharply. 'The Opéra?' he repeated questioningly.
'Yes, you are in the Paris opera house,' Antoinette said. The small boy seemed surprised. 'It's here that people come to watch the music and dancing.'
'Music..' murmured Erik, beginning to sound rather like a little parrot. Then suddenly his face jerked up and he seemed very distraught indeed. 'Pantin! Where is he? I have lost him!' Antoinette watched his distress in alarm, then realised what he was talking about. 'You mean your monkey? You haven't lost him; he is over there, look.' Erik's head turned so quickly he could have damaged his neck. In an instant he had spotted the dirty grey toy lying some way away from him, and he thankfully crawled towards it, grabbing it in his strangely long-fingered hands. He hugged the grimy thing to his chest, eyes closed. It was a touching reunion - the little boy must have not seen where he dropped the monkey in the dark, and he had greatly missed it. Erik gently touched the monkey's tiny cymbals together in an almost ritualistic manner, taking obvious joy in the merry, bright little tinkle it made.
In the distance, the tinkle of the cymbals was answered by a deeper tolling of a church bell, calling out the hour over Paris. Antoinette gasped - she had not realised it had gotten so late. 'I must go - they'll notice I am gone. I will come back to you later with something for you to eat, Erik! And please make sure that nobody sees you...'
Erik nodded obediently, and she left him in the corridor, closing the secret door behind her. As she exited the chapel, Erik remained seated, stroking the small stuffed monkey's grubby cloth head. He distantly remembered his mother pleading him to stay hidden, just as the girl Antoinette had done a short while ago. Erik got to his feet, looking up and down the corridor...he was good at hiding, from experience, so he would have no trouble whatsoever...
'Erik?' the echo of a faraway voice called somewhere in the network of corridors the young boy had just been exploring. He had found an entire world behind the walls of the Opéra Populaire; a damp and cold world, maybe, but also a secret and unknown world that he longed to explore. Now, however, he could hear Antoinette's voice calling him from afar, so he reluctantly turned around and skipped back the way he came. His bare feet tapped gently against the moist stone floor as he ran, Pantin hanging from his bony hand. When he finally arrived in the corridor behind the chapel's mural, he saw Antoinette standing there with something in her hand.
'There you are,' she said. 'I brought you some bread.' Erik's stomach quivered in hungry anticipation. He had not eaten in days. The gypsies seemed to believe that the only reason they should waste food on something that appeared already dead was if it was too weak to cry out when whipped...he had almost forgotten now what bread tasted like. Erik tried his very best not to snatch it from the ballerina's proferred hand, taking it as carefully and as politely as he could. Once he held the small loaf in his fingers, though, he sharply pulled the sack from his head, without warning and in complete disregard to his present company. Antoinette's tiny gasp at the sudden sight of his exposed face failed to be heard by the ravenous boy as he tore at the bread with yellowish teeth, black hair falling over his eyes. He looked like a young savage as he wolfed down the bread, but he didn't care the slightest bit; all that mattered was the waves of satisfaction that were floating in his mind as he ate, tasting the familiar, slightly salty tang of the loaf.
All to soon, before Erik's hunger was even partially sated, the bread was gone, and he was searching his grubby hands for crumbs. Antoinette watched him with slight concern. 'You should not have eaten so quickly,' she said disapprovingly. 'You'll give yourself a dreadful stomach-ache...' Erik merely watched her, the expression on his fearsome face impossible to discern. Those yellow eyes were so unnerving; the way they shone slightly in the light was quite disturbing to those who beheld him. He blinked, then remembered the sack, which lay abandoned on the floor along with the toy monkey. He picked up the makeshift mask and put it over his head once more, then looked back at Antoinette, who hovered by the corridor's entrance. His head turned to one side in curiosity - what was it she held in her arms?
She seemed to notice the question he wordlessly asked, and so replied: 'Oh...I brought you some books to read, in case you have nothing to do. Can you read?' Erik nodded, a hint of pride visible even in his timid stance. Antoinette put the small pile of books down on the ground beside the untouched lantern and tinder-box, then gave him a small smile. 'I might be able to come back after lunch with more food...now I must go.' With that, she went out through the door and into the chapel beyond, leaving the boy alone. As soon as she was out of sight, he pulled the sack from over his head and knelt beside the collection of books. They seemed to have been of a quite random selection; some looked quite lengthy, others entertaining, some factual. He picked one up curiously; it was a weighty tome, with music as its main subject. His long fingers wonderingly touched the hard cover, running along the engraved letters before opening to book to peer at the pages of print. It would take him a long while to read, especially at his ponderous pace, but nevertheless it seemed to be a good distraction...Erik sat on the floor and began to read.
When night finally fell, the small boy was already prepared for it, and had set up his defences carefully. His lantern provided a warm, reassuring light in the foreign darkness of the corridor, and Pantin gave further comfort from the strange coldness of the stone floor, that was so different from the warm straw he was used to sleeping on. Erik lay close to his softly burning lantern, the glow making his eyes gleam from the eyeholes of the sack he wore. Even though nobody was there to see him, he still wore his demeaning burlap sack as it seemed to block him from the frightening gloom that lurked at the end of the corridor. He held Pantin close to his chest, relieved that the two of them were at last reunited after a long night apart. As he lay dozing, he realised that this had been the very first day that he had spent with his toy always in his hand. When he had been with the gypsies (how joyful indeed it was to refer to that time in the past tense now!), he had been forced to bury Pantin beneath a pile of straw in case he was taken away. Erik had become very much attached to the cloth monkey, proving that he was not a demon boy but a child like any other; and besides, there was nothing else in his cage to keep him company and help him to forget where he was...
He closed his eyes and curled up into an even tighter ball, basking in the lantern's glow. The fact that the deep, dark shadows had been pushed away further down the corridor was comforting, and he was greatly thankful for it. But the light did shine on his eyelids in a rather annoying way...Erik turned over, away from the glare, being careful to be quiet so as not to attract the attention of the monsters that surely lurked just outside the lantern light. After a short while, he pulled the sack away from his head to give his poor absent nose some breathing space, wrapping his arms closer around Pantin as he closed his eyes once more. The cloth monkey's head peeped over his bare arm, the metal cymbals cool and hard against his skin while the monkey's soft, grimy body fit perfectly against Erik's jutting ribs and collarbone. It was a moment of blissful comfort he experienced, after so long sleeping on prickly, malodorous straw in the musty darkness of a tent. Perhaps being alone was not so terrible, after all...
Slowly, ears still pricked for approaching beasts in the shadows but considerably more relaxed, Erik fell asleep, curled like a cat beside the golden glowing lantern in the stone corridor.
Breakfast came at the usual time the next day, in the form of a small loaf of bread taken by the swift fingers of the ballerina Antoinette. This bread was just as rapidly wolfed down, but Erik had been careful to turn away when he ate so as not to shock the girl with his awful face. For he could see through the brave indifferent gaze of hers, where there lay a hint of guilty but perfectly natural disgust. He tried his best not to care; he knew he still needed to steel himself against the revulsion of less tolerant people, in case he ever met any. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't, as he was loath to endure a second eternity of being stared at, cursed and spat upon.
After giving him a second candle just in case, Antoinette left, and Erik was free to explore. He had the entire warren of secret passages to himself, and he itched to discover what lay down the other corridors. For this knowledge, he was willing to brave the deep blackness that hung malignantly in the air...
So Erik set out along the corridors with only Pantin for company, walking light-footed over the cold stone floor. It felt so undescribably wonderful to be rushing through cool, gloomy tunnels, sharply turning corners and feeling a breeze on his face as he ran. Of course, owing to the limited amount of space Erik had formerly had in which to stretch his legs, he ran in an awkward, prowling skitter, since the confines of his cage had only allowed him to walk a few strides from end to end whenever his legs became too cramped. However, this did not bother him much; he was too wrapped up in the dizzying freedom of movement he had to care about his inability to run properly on his weakened legs. It was a shame that most young children had the ability to run and skip and develop strong, sturdy legs, while Erik, prisoner in the small cage, was left with no alternative than to lie in the straw and let himself grow weaker and thinner. What a terrible time it had been...he had not had the power to try and escape, and in those dark days that passed with each blow of the gypsy's whip, he had even seen Death as he lay dizzy and starving. Erik had often smiled at Death, and Death always aknowledged him courteously, for even Erik could find the striking resemblance between himself and the dark-robed skeletal apparition. Both of them were similar in appearance, and the subject of collective horror, too, though Death was most certainly not locked in a cage to be gawped at. However, even though the gypsy always loudly proclaimed that Erik was a living corpse, a child of Death, Death never reached out his bony arms to embrace the boy that was allegedly his own. No, Erik had been cruelly abandoned again by another, rather metaphorical parent, for Death always stood silent in the cage, hovering behind the large gypsy as he entered to give the child his beating, never saying a word and never putting out a hand to release Erik from the ghastly, beaten body he inhabited. But then, only a couple of days ago, Erik had found out that Death was, in truth, there for the gypsy. He had been watching as Erik strangled the man in a sudden surge of strength; he had not said a word, but Erik had finally realised that the apparition was there to take the gypsy, not him...no, the ballerina girl was the one who had come for him. And now here he was, skipping and tripping through the empty, long corridors full of nothing but gloom.
The darkness was not as frightening if he passed through it quickly; in fact, it was becoming more and more bearable. Erik scuttled on, and then came to an abrupt halt. He had entered a small, empty chamber that was not exactly filled with light, but was considerably less shadowy. This was due to the ceiling of the chamber, which was in fact not a ceiling, but the floorboards of a room above, having long, narrow gaps from which there shone a faint, watery light. Erik stopped and stared straight up at the long, thin lines of light above him, the round, black pupils of his golden eyes contracting slightly. He realised that he must be under a floor of some kind; he stood still and listened, but could hear no sound from above. Looking around, he noticed a short, dusty ladder, that ended below a more square-shaped part of the ceiling, which revealed itself to be a trapdoor, judging by the handle. Erik's eyes grew wide and he ran without hesitation to the ladder, climbing it with determination until the top of his black-haired head brushed the wooden ceiling. Then, he pushed on the trapdoor, and it rose slightly, enabling him to poke his head through. The room above was light and welcoming; all thoughts of being caught gone, Erik pulled himself through the trapdoor and into the room.
The room was fairly small, but opened into two corridors at each end. It was filled with ropes and hooks and pulleys, all lying here and there, waiting to be used. Erik hesitantly left the room and tiptoed into a corridor, making sure nobody was around. It appeared as if most of the staff and workers were still at breakfast, or in another part of the building, for the corridors were deserted. However, the warmth of the floorboards beneath Erik's feet told him that he was approaching a place where people walked regularly, and he was not supposed to be here. Cold, hard floors were the ones he must go back to - up here anybody could catch him, and who knew what would happen to him if that did happen. Erik was about to turn back and run to his trapdoor, when he realised he had emerged onto a landing that was right above a shiny dark expanse of wood - the stage. He could hear people talking down below in the huge room, but he knew they could not possibly see him. Curiosity getting the better of him, he lightly ran over to a darker part of the landing, then looked up.
Far above him was a criss-crossing web of thick wooden beams, from which hung pieces of large, intricately painted scenery. Erik looked at these backdrops admiringly, before looking up to the beams their ropes and pulleys were looped over. There must be such a lovely sight from up there...it looked like a secret and safe place, up on the rafters above the stage and hanging scenery. Erik was young and light - nobody else would ever manage to climb up and intrude upon his second secret home. Yes...he would climb all the way up there, and nobody would ever see him...
The rope beside him looked very promising indeed. Rough, sturdy and straight, it hung down from the beam it was tightly tied around. If he could just climb up it, he would be able to look down at the stage from an invisible hiding-place...Erik tugged on the rope experimentally. A small shower of dust and tiny specks of wood rained down. Brushing it distractedly from his long, curling locks, he gripped the rope at a point above his own head, and pulled himself up.
His first attempt was humiliatingly unsuccesful. His arms would not hold even the weight of his half-starved body, making him drop straight back down onto the floor. However, his determination prevailed, and he tried a second time - but again he could not climb up the rope. It began to become increasingly frustrating, as Erik pulled at the rope with mounting annoyance but to no avail whatsoever. His knees slipped on the ghastly thing as it twisted and swung beneath his weight, throwing him off balance and, consequently, flat on his back on the ground. Erik narrowed his eyes angrily, then took a flying leap at the rope, grabbing onto it with both fists and clinging on. He hung there, like a cat halfway up a curtain with all claws out, then began to dare to hope that he had managed to climb a little way. But as soon as he loosened his hold by a small amount to pull himself higher, he abruptly slid down, the rope hissing as it suddenly grew burning hot beneath his palms. Erik gave a yelp, pulling his burnt hands away from it, only to find himself not holding onto the rope at all and landing on his back once more with a thump and cry of pain. The rope swung gently above him as he lay curled up onto his side, nursing his singed hands and bruised back morosely. Erik haltingly stood again, wincing at the rope-burn between his knees and on his poor hands. Not feeling inclined in any way to continue attempting to climb, he limped off back the way he came, slender, pink-palmed hands tucked firmly beneath his arms to ease the throbbing as he retreated into the shadows.