Songs of the Sun

"The Phantom was a real person."

Winter, 1870

No doubt my Persian friend rejoices in the fact that he is ever the wiser between us.

The wet, winter cold reached out with fervent claws and I let it attack, feeling the icy salt sting my face. From my sheltered view below the prow of this private voyager, The Tempest, I can see the city harbor taking shape amidst the failing twilight on the horizon. Already there are signs of discord rising from the swelling waters – a broken and barnacled mast reaching from the dark waters of the harbor.

As the ship docked the harbor and the call is made to depart I slipped the dark mask over my face once more and pulled my hat lower on my head, thankful for the quick winter nightfall and the lack of adequate lighting on the docks. Our private voyager surpassed the rigmarole of "normal" class immigration, all aboard this ship have already had their legalities properly noted and necessary dealings done, underhanded though they were, long before their arrival. I did not ask the Daroga what it cost me to slip unnoticed into this country.

Waiting on the pier was a well-built and smartly dressed man who approached me immediately.

"Mr. Masion?" He drawls, his mouth forming the simple words into a certain melody. I nod curtly and by habit keep my masked side hidden from him. Interestingly, he reached out to shake my hand, an action that would surely cause outrage in Europe. I accept and return his firm grip. By the yellow light of the lantern he I could see he was a striking figure, intelligent blue eyes and a broad, handsome face. His hair was thick and black, tied neatly in a queue at the base of his neck. He studied me openly, his air confident and proud and somewhat… challenging.

"John Washington, sir." He said finally, offering the name I already knew to be my handler, so to speak. "Your carriage is just this way." Quickly and deftly he took my bag from me and led me along the slippery dock. An elegant black carriage awaited us led by four beautiful and well-kept draft horses. John opened the door and ushered me inside then quickly returned to the dock to see to my luggage. I took a moment to make my first survey Charleston and this new country. I see the broken vestiges of a bustling city only partially restored to beauty. She is scarred, flawed, her ugly past laid bare in burnt wood and wasted stone.

Yet from the charred remains of the ugliness of man like the phoenix rising, she lived again; carved from loving hands, chipping away a the stone and wood and exposing hope. Beauty from ashes.

Yes, my old friend, you were right. This country and I will suit one another fine.

Italy, 1869

The ink was yet dry on the parchment when the door opened to my humble stone cell and a bear of a man clothed in simple brown robes let himself in, carrying a tea service which looked like a child's toy in his hands.

"Good evening, Brother." I said without looking up. A single, fat candle on the desk that cast a rosy glow about the room but did not dispel the shadows beneath his eyes.

"Is it finished?" He asks simply, nodding towards the stack of parchment that atop the table as he set the tea next to it, helping himself to a cup before settling down on the little hard mattress atop the wooden bed frame.

"Only just."

"Is it the truth?" He can't help but allow the corners of his mouth twitch up in the tiniest of smiles.

"Only the truth could be so ghastly." Comes my mumbled reply. His geniality, as always, irritated me. "I have added my own… embellishments, one might say. For theatricality's sake."

"Yes, I gathered that in the sample you lent me – I've known you a great many years now, Erik, and have yet to detect the charming aroma of death you so described." He chuckled then spoke in his native tongue rather than French. "In fact, I would say you smell quite lovely compared to the majority of your countrymen." I scowl at his good humor, which made him chuckle the more. "I see you are still sulking. Have you yet stepped beyond these halls to embrace the sun? At one time you felt most at home in our gardens, if I recall correctly. Besides that, you could stand for a bit of sunlight."

My silence is his reply. He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. I know I make him weary but I know no other way to be.

"You have said yourself and I hope it is written in that very manuscript that The Opera Ghost is dead. Christine herself has buried him in his darkness with her tender hands."

"It is true…" I whispered, yet still a twinge of doubt grieved me. I've lived in darkness for so long, not just the darkness of the night but that blackness of the heart that so consumed me. I passed my hand over the manuscript and knew my face flamed with burning indignity at the monster I had become long before my decent below the Opera Populaire. Christine, my heart clenched at the thought of her innocent heart forever tainted by my madness. "How did it become thus? I never meant for any of this to happen, in the beginning… I only wished to hide myself away from the world that so despised me…" I covered my face with hands that trembled. "But that cursed desire that rose up within my heart could not be abated. The desire to be normal, to be accepted… to live my days among those who loved me… To share my music."

"Then do so!" The Brother cried suddenly, startling me by pounding his hand on the stone wall beside him. "Live not as a ghost but as a man! I have not helped redeem you yet again, my friend, so you may incarcerate yourself inside stone once more."

"I do not deserve it, Giuseppe! I am a murderer of the most wicked kind – not only of the body but of the spirit as well!" My voice echoed through the tiny room and I stood over him. "I do not deserve to live, it should be me buried beneath the opera, not some stolen corpse!" My voice cracked with emotion and I turned from him, wrapping my arms about myself to center my rage. It was a few moments before I could speak again. "I do not believe in the redemption to which you speak so ardently." My voice comes out as a wicked hiss.

"You do not choose to believe." He said quietly from behind me. "I choose to believe that a man who's heart is great enough to hold the empire of the world could only have come from that which is divine. The darkness in your soul was not created there, Erik, only allowed to enter all those years ago and to grow and fester as you contented yourself to that dark cellar, as far from light as you could hide." He sighed behind me, his voice weary. "Though may I be damned for blasphemy, I do not believe we are all born of sin – it is the wickedness of this world that turns us to evil. We meager humans, in all our vanity, cry out to the Heavens saying, 'Why have you done this to me?' when in truth the fault lies only within ourselves. You are like a cat on its ninth life, my friend. Take care to accept this one as the gift it is."

"We are the masters of our fate…" I quoted Shakespeare absently, my eyes staring blankly at my reflection cast by candlelight on the gray wall. The monk's words captivated me, held me spellbound. I never before allowed myself such… hope. Perhaps I am just like that which is reflected on the wall, a flickering shadow of the man I was meant to be. That through circumstance, through the dregs of humanity, I was changed, dimmed… a ghost of the man I should have been…

The monk's hand clasped my shoulder behind me, startling me from my rumination. "You must seek your redemption Erik. Seek that living flame of love; be baptized in the waters of life that have so eluded you. Shake away the old darkness that consumed you – shed it like old skin! Let now hope be kindled within." He turned me to face him, I felt like a mere child beneath his large, strong hands. He was one of the few men to tower over me.

From within the folds of his robe handed me a thick parcel bearing my name, written in the Daroga's hand…

~~00~~

Long after Brother Giuseppe left me to consider his words, I once again took up my quill and made the final changes to my manuscript. I included a few new revelations and sealed it with wax from the candle before addressing it as such:

Le Gaulois

Paris, France

Regarding:

The Phantom of the Opera

An Article of Truth offered by Gaston Leroux

~~~ooo~~~

I resisted titling this "Erik Goes to America!"

I really need a beta (as you can see) so if anyone is interested please PM me!

This is Leroux based, though I have pretty much taken whatever poetic license you will allow me… and then some. As you can see I already played with the dates. I will also be altering history, as it were, for my own personal delight :) If this bothers you, fair warning! I'm just in it for the romance anyway. **wink**