A.N. Hello readers! This is actually a multi-chapter fanfiction! (Okay, let's be honest—it's a two-shot.) I wrote this after seeing 'Love Never Dies'—Andrew Lloyd Webber's attempt at writing a sequel to the Phantom of the Opera. I found it absolutely awful for numerous reasons. So here's my own fic—trying to prove that you can write a sequel where the Phantom gets a happy ending without breaking up Christine and Raoul and introducing the Phantom's illegitimate son. Be warned, the first chapter may not look relevant, but my motives will be shown soon. Anything you recognize doesn't belong to me. The legend in the first chapter does.

Many years ago, in the time of our forefathers, there was a noble prince. He was a just and wise leader, and all who saw him loved him. His father was proud to have such a noble son, and named the prince his heir. All loved the prince… except for his cousin. His cousin felt cheated that the prince was heir. He had been heir before the prince was born, and raged at the fact that he now would not become king. That is, unless the prince came to an unfortunate end. The cousin began to plot the death of the prince. One day, as the prince laid asleep in his chamber, the cousin took a knife in order to slit his throat. The cousin loomed over the prince, knife poised. However, woken by fate or instinct, the prince snapped awake. The murderous blow missed its mark. Instead, the knife slashed across the prince's face. The cousin, realizing his mistake, tried to plunge his blade into the prince's heart. But now the prince was awake, and was no easy mark. The prince dove out the window, and dashed across the ledge below. When the guards came in, alerted by the noise and confusion, they found the cousin holding a bloodstained knife… but the prince was nowhere to be seen.

Months passed. The prince ran from his home, filled with shame that he had trusted his cousin, and a grave mistrust for all others. His face slowly healed, but the perfection was marred by a large, rope-like scar. The prince hated his scar, because not only was it a sign of his failure—it brought the fear of others upon him. Housewives who had once given him loaves of bread or had smuggled him fresh apples now chased him with brooms. Men who had once taught him their trades—be it tanning, fishing or hunting—now shot him suspicious looks, or told him to "Clear off!", usually with the threat of a beating. Even small children cried and ran if he approached. No one recognized him as the prince. All they saw was an outcast. The prince wandered far from his home. Over time, he became bitter and depressed. In his eyes, with his new deformity, there was nothing left for him in the world. He stood one day on the banks of a river, considering jumping in and ending it all, when someone pushed him instead. He struggled to the surface to find a boy his age. The boy grinned at him, and said, "Is your curiosity satisfied now? The water is cold. It steals your breath and freezes your blood. So if you want to kill yourself, I'd find another way." At first, the prince considered being angry at the boy. But his humor caught up with him. The prince couldn't help but laugh at his sorry plight. The boy reached in to pull him out, and took the prince to find some dry clothes.

The boy was part of a gypsy tribe—wanderer and outcasts who travelled lawlessly across the land. These gypsies focused mostly on music, each having a talent with music. The prince found himself joining in with them, singing and playing the fiddle. (Of course he had been taught the violin, but the cruder instrument was similar enough for him.) He rejoiced in being accepted again, for the first time in months, and so when the gypsy tribe pulled up camp again, he joined them. As the years went by, the prince grew proud and strong. He had won the hearts of the gypsy tribe, who had learned over the years how to look past a person's history or appearance. The prince rose to become the leader of the tribe, and he lead them like he would have lead his country if given the chance. But the gypsies knew of the prince's troubled heart. He often mourned the loss of society, or rather, his forced separation from it. The prince could still no longer go out in public. His only way to escape prosecution was to wear a mask that the cobbler had made for him—a beautiful creation that mimicked a bird from a distant land. But it still shamed him to be the only one forced to hide his face from the world. So the gypsies banded together. One day when the prince rose, he realized that each gypsy had taken a mask of his or her own. Masks of all colors, all themes, all designs littered the camp. They ranged from a tinker who had taken a simple black bandit's mask, to a fire-breather who had created a mask to imitate his craft. The sights of these masks were worn as a sign of devotion to the prince, so he would no longer stand out. And as time passed, even after the prince had died—the gypsies still wore their masks, to show to the world that in this manner at least, they were all equal.