So this will be the third time I've reposted this story. :oP But, don't they say third time's a charm? The reason for this repost is mostly because it's been a very long while since I updated. In that time I've changed my pen name (I was formerly known as Music's Enchantment) and I thought that, if I was going to edit my end-of-chapter author's notes to include my new name, I might as well go back through the story and edit anything I thought could be made better! Also, especially in light of the upcoming Phantom sequel Love Never Dies, I thought it would be appropriate to finally tell my story of what happened after dear Erik vanished. So here it is, newer and even more improved than ever before, A Strange Sweet Song!
Summary- The infamous Opera Ghost died that night. He died the night Ubaldo Piangi was found strangled backstage. He died the night Christine Daae was once again kidnapped and taken to the kingdom of darkness that lay beneath the theater. That was the very night in which the Vicomte de Chagny almost lost his life in an attempt to rescue his fiancé. And, in that same evening, the couple was inexplicably set free, unharmed. The hidden lair was discovered, raided, searched, and smashed to pieces. He was never found… but he died there that night. The Phantom lived no more. It was a broken and empty shell of a man that fled Paris after those terrible events. This being too might have ceased to exist had it not been for a last gesture of sympathy from an old friend. It was in this way that he found himself far from the only home-like place he had known, more alone than ever, broken and hurt, but alive. Could he be healed in this new environment? Or would he continue to exist as a tortured soul, feared by and fearing the world? It would take more than an angel to perform such a miracle as was needed to save him.
Disclaimer- I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, that honor belongs to Gaston Leroux and the brilliant Andrew Lloyd Webber. All I own are the characters I created. That is, Isabelle and her friends and family.
A/N: My story is not solely based upon any one book, movie, or play. I have taken elements from each as I see fit. I've primarily used the play and movie with some homage to Leroux's fantastic novel here and there. Kay's novel, Phantom, has little influence in this particular story aside from some mention of poor Erik's drug addiction. My Erik, as a character, has the personality one might see him portrayed with in the stage performance, a life story that is movie-influenced (basically, he is closer to Christine's age), and, as for his appearance….when I think of Erik, I tend to think of Ramin Karmiloo. :o) I hope that's not too confusing. You'll see as it goes on but if you have any questions feel free to ask! My story picks up, of course, after the disastrous opening performance of Don Juan Triumphant, the exact details of that night being taken from the play.
Prologue
Antoinette Giry paced the floor of her small room. Why she was there, of all places, she was still unsure. Nearly every other person in the building, guests and staff alike, had fled to the streets as soon as the night had fallen to pieces. For "fallen to pieces" was the only way to describe what had happened. Every good thing they had, every bit of prestige gone in an instant. Monsieur Firmin's miserable cry at the sight of Piangi's body had said it all, "We're ruined!". Ruined too was every secret she had kept for so long and so well, every precaution she had made.
Where, she thought desperately, did I go wrong?
Surely, there must have been something more she could have done to prevent this from happening. Surely she, the only one who knew the whole truth, could have foreseen this. She ran her thoughts back over the last year; new management, Carlotta's temper tantrums, Christine's debut, and then the terrors began. The Opera Ghost had always been discussed in the small city that was the Opera Populaire. He had always been there, blamed for slips and mishaps and vanished powder puffs. But this, all of this, was more than she could have imagined. There had been hangings, falling chandeliers, and kidnappings! He had surely lost his mind entirely, but why? It could certainly not be solely due to one, simple chorus girl, could it? Christine was pretty and kind, to be sure, but simple. Erik was so very far from simple. Certainly he could find little to pique his interest in the naive child. However, it seemed he had.
Antoinette looked now about the room. It was so familiar to her with its scuffed hardwood floors, crammed bookshelf, worn rocking chair, heavy curtained windows, and dressing table covered with portraits. The room itself was as dear to her as any of the possessions in it. Yet, she saw it now with changed eyes. Would this be her home much longer? It had been the first thought of many people after the disaster; the opera house may have to close. Andre and Firmin certainly would not have another look at the place so long as they lived, and many of the patrons would no doubt be frightened away. Gossip could only go so far before it turned from selling seats to keeping people out of them. As she paused by the foot of her bed she found her mind traveling farther back than the horrible evening or the past wild months; years back. Meg had been just a babe. This had been where he'd come to her; the only time he had ever come to her.
She had just put her daughter down to bed and sat reading by a dim lamplight, waiting for her husband to return home. The book was Hamlet, she remembered this detail clearly. She'd never been much interested in Shakespeare, opera being her daily occupation, but a friend who had once lived in London had lent her a copy of the tragedy to occupy herself with as the baby adjusted to sleeping through the night. She had lifted her eyes from the page for just a moment and there he stood, a boy of about fifteen, hovering by the doorway and half hidden in shadow.
Even then he had held himself with a haughty and mysterious air. His already significant height was magnified by his lean frame, his pale skin stood out sharply against a shock of black hair that was awkwardly combed in a rather unsuccessful attempt to hide the marred and bare scalp of his right side. A piece of black fabric, hardened and shaped with resin and secured with a ribbon pilfered from the costume room, served as a rudimentary mask. In years to come he would fashion himself a new disguise out of white porcelain and a nearly undetectable hairpiece; but for now he was a boy, a genius boy, but a boy all the same. There would be time later for swishing cloaks and threatening letters. The young Madame had started understandably at the sudden apparition and it took a moment's thought to figure whether he was truly there or not. She concluded he was, for his eyes were fixed on hers, and there could be no denying those eyes. Astonishingly green, deep and piercing; eyes which caught the dim light in just such a way as to make them appear to glow. They were the most living part of that haunted face. When it became clear he would say nothing, Antoinette broke the silence,
"Yes, Erik?" She spoke quietly and with some hesitance; something had to be amiss for him to venture from the cellars.
He seemed somewhat taken aback at being addressed, faltered for a moment, then tentatively stepped forward into the brighter light of the center of the room. She saw now that he was clutching his right hand, there was pain on his face.
"Have…have you hurt your hand Erik?" she offered.
He nodded and looked away; it was obviously uncomfortable for him to have to come above for anything.
"May I see it?" she asked.
Again, he did not reply, but nodded slightly. She rose and slowly crossed the room towards him.
Looking away, the boy held his hand out, palm down, towards Antoinette. It was wrapped in a piece of white cloth; she could see the blood now. She gently took his hand in her own so as to turn it over but no sooner had her fingers brushed his flesh than he jumped as though a shot had been fired and pulled his hand away. She had seen him react like this before and it hurt her every time. Through years of abuse and scorn he had developed a phobia of human contact and compassion, perhaps the only true fear he had.
"Erik," she whispered, trying to sound soothing through her own apprehension, "I must see your hand to help you."
This time he let her unwrap the wound, though he still instinctively trembled at the touch of another person. Her heart again pained for the remarkable boy. For too long the feel of hands on his skin had meant a beating.
It was a rather grisly sight that met Antoinette's eyes. He had acquired a deep gash across his right palm and had tried to mend it himself but, for all his amazing talent, he was still only right handed and had been less than successful. She did not even think to ask what he had done; she rather thought she didn't want to know. Instantly, however, her motherly instincts overrode any hesitance and she silently directed him to a chair.
A few moments later she had completed stitching the wound. Erik had not flinched once through the entire ordeal, though it surely had been painful without any proper anesthetic. Good Lord, the kind of pain this boy must have already borne.
Still they sat in silence as she wrapped it in a fresh bandage. When all was done he stood and locked those green eyes onto hers again. For a moment she was sure he would say something, but he was gone before the thought fully formed in her brain; gone as suddenly as he had appeared.
"Be careful." She murmured to his nonexistent shadow.
She knew that in the outside world a boy of fifteen would be nearly a man. He would be preparing for whatever occupation he was to take up. He would be learning the ways of society and the world and be introduced to the ways of love. Yes, that was what boys of fifteen did in the outside world.
Erik was not meant for the outside world.
In so many ways he was far ahead of his age. He was a musical and architectural prodigy, a master magician and a ventriloquist, improving his remarkable skills by the day. Yet, in many other ways, he was a child; a lost, lonely child who still waited for the love of a long dead mother and a long gone father.
No, Erik would never be meant for the outside world.
Madame Giry, aged and widowed, stood, staring into oblivion, lost in this reverie, for a long while. It was not until a shrill voice sounded in her doorway that she was stirred back to reality.
"Mamá!"
Antoinette turned suddenly to find her daughter, now grown into a young woman, flying into her bedroom, very distressed. She was still dressed in the costume she'd worn for the performance, shivering from the lack of warmth its design provided.
"Oh, Mamá! I was so worried, we've been looking for you all over!" the blonde haired girl threw her arms around her mother's neck in a relentless embrace, "When you weren't outside after…I thought you might have…" Meg Giry couldn't finish her statement. She didn't want to contemplate what might have happened to her mother. Instead she hugged her all the more fiercely, blinking tears out of her eyes.
"Hush, child. I have been here all along." She patted her daughters back soothingly, but all the motherly love in the world could not soothe her at the moment.
"Oh, Mamá!" Meg exclaimed again as she broke their embrace, "I was there, I know you said I mustn't but…but I just had to find Christine!" here she choked back a sob and looked to her mother in anticipation of a reprimand. When none came she continued, shakily,
"But when we arrived in the house by the lake. We found no one! Not a trace of Raoul or Christine or…I c-can't bear to think what he's done to them!" She spat the pronoun as though it were a lit explosive, to be thrown as far as possible from one's person.
Gathering her trembling child tightly in her arms Madame Giry spoke,
"Meg…Meg, listen to me!" she took the girl's face in her hands and looked into her bloodshot eyes, "Christine and the Vicomte are fine."
"Fine? How do you know? How can you be sure?" she paused a moment then, suddenly struck with a horrifying notion, continued, "Did he tell you that? Do you still think him harmless?!?"
Truth be told, the old ballet mistress was not entirely sure what she thought anymore.
"No…no he did not tell me anything."
No, he hadn't told her anything. She had had no idea. She had not foreseen.
"I know they are safe because I saw them myself not an hour ago."
The younger Giry's eyes grew wide as the statement settled in.
"Here? In the opera house, Mamá?"
Madame nodded, "In this very room."
"Mamá you must fetch them! They must speak with the police!"
Meg slipped free from her mother's arms and headed towards the door, but a hand caught her wrist before she reached it.
"No, Meg! They are leaving, going far away. You must let them escape in secret!"
"But…the police…"
"Everyone will be assured of their safety in time." She sighed rather involuntarily. The past weeks were beginning to catch up with her, "Come, let us join the others."
With that she led her daughter, who was still lost in contemplation of her friend's fate, out of the small room.
When they finally reached the grand front steps of the opera house quite a sight met their eyes. The multitude of people that inhabited the building, some of whom never saw the light of day, had emptied onto the streets of Paris. Carlotta was caterwauling from where she lay prostrate on the bottom step. Firmin ran to and fro running his hands through his hair, shouting needless orders to any who would hear. His friend Andre, meanwhile, sat on a step a distance off, muttering to himself and blankly staring. The vast majority, however, stood in huddled groups talking quietly. None wanted to leave, not until they were sure that whatever had caused such chaos was done away with.
"Madame Giry! Meg!" called one of the younger stagehands as they made their way down the steps. His name was Martín Derbeux and he had long harbored some affection for the blonde ballerina, explaining his relief at the sight of them.
"Don't fear now, Meg. We've just been told that they've caught sight of the beast in some alley near the Rue Scribe side. We'll catch him directly and then we can all go safely home."
After a moment's pause he continued in his usual forthright manner,
"Imagine the list of charges they've got on his arrest warrant. They should really just shorten it to being an outright monster, saves ink. It doesn't really matter, in any case. The devil will get his due, quite literally. They won't be showing him any mercy, mark my words; especially with the involvement of the de Chagnys. No, he'll get his and then some."
Meg nodded appreciatively. Though it was hard to say if it was for his words or his blue eyes.
Madame Giry, meanwhile, had been struck with a sudden image. The image of a scared young boy with black locks and green eyes. They would drag him away with heavy hands, to court, in front of multitudes. Away from the opera and his music. They would question him, torment him. Dear God…they would remove his mask for all to see. He would not withstand it, could not. And it was simply not fair! It had been they who had made him this way. The selfsame they who now sought him out. The they that had sent him into hiding, told him he was unfit for the society. He had done wrong, but so had the world. Antoinette Giry could not stand for such hypocrisy. Moreover, she could not bear to see that scared little boy be lead to the guillotine.
As she ran desperately towards the Rue Scribe, ignoring her daughter's questioning cries, a single thought resonated in her head.
He will never be meant for the outside world.
Well, I hope you have enjoyed the prologue and I do hope you will stick around to read what becomes of dear Erik! I intend to update once every two weeks or so but I have a lot of things to do outside of fanfiction (like getting into college) so please don't hate me if I'm a bit delayed in my updates! :o)
Until next time, I remain…
Your Obedient Authoress,
~Ms. This
