Disclaimer: All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.
The One and Only Author's Note: Unless it becomes absolutely necessary, I will be refraining from commenting on each chapter. I hope to conclude the story with a wrap-up notes chapter, but if this proves impossible, I'll go through and update the chapters as needed with A/Ns.
Otherwise, I'm following the characterizations of Raoul, Christine, Meg, and the Daroga from Leroux's work (i.e. Meg has dark hair, Christine is blond). Erik is closer to Andrew Lloyd's Webber's musical adaptation in physical appearance only. As far as setting, I made some obvious changes to Erik's lair. Also, let me preface, I have not read Susan Kay's Phantom; any similarities (if there are any) are pure coincidence.
All in all, this will be a slow story mainly between Erik and Meg. Not quite a romance but more than a friendship. Christine makes a few appearances early on and later. I will do my best to not make her a simpering idiot, but a rather complex individual. The same can be said of all the main characters. Happy reading! – p.s. (edited & updated 4/17/13)
De petite souris a monsieur chat: Chapter 1
January 1882: Beneath the Opera House
Erik waited in the darkness as the mob found their way into his lair. He listened to the destruction of his home and prayed that none of the fools found him by accident. Sitting among his nonperishable food stuffs in his small cellar, he huffed at his thoughts of prayer. There was no God. Not in his world. In the early days of his life at the Palais Garnier, he had planned for the inevitable discovery of his home. His cellar had two access points - a trapdoor underneath his throne and an actual door near his bedroom. He later added a final passageway that twisted its way to the catacombs underneath Paris, but he had sealed it out of paranoia.
Would he unseal it if the mob found him? Or would he simply give in to their anger, hate, and fear? He felt helpless and vulnerable; he hated himself for it. He, the great Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera, the most feared executioner in Persia, le mort vivant, was afraid of a mob.
Yet the fear and self-hate paled as he reflected on how he ended up in his dark, dank, cold cellar. She could have loved him if he hadn't murdered men and threatened... She had agreed to be his bride. Him. She did not despise his face or turn away in fear like so many others; she feared what lay inside his tortured heart. Christine, his angel, kissed him to save... him, and in that moment, Erik knew he was wrong. You cannot force a woman to love you, his inner voice sneered. Have you learned nothing from the operas you've seen, the books you've read? Stupid Erik, ugly Erik. You didn't deserve her love. Not even her kindness! He bit his tongue to prevent an anguished cry from escaping his lips. Silently, he sobbed in the darkness as the remains of his heart withered in his chest.
Time passed. The chaotic sounds above him ceased. Voices faded from shouts to murmurs to nothing. He didn't care. Christine was gone. What was there left to live for? What had life ever given him but misery and pain? His tears had ceased coursing down his cheeks. Now his body was wracked with weariness from sobbing for so long and hard. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he asked the silence, "Why? Why should I go on living?"
When he woke again, he felt the gnawing pain of an empty stomach. He didn't care. He pushed himself off of the dirt floor and sat cross-legged in the darkness. Dying of starvation, Erik? It's such a slow and painful way to die... There are faster means of banishing one's self from this mortal coil, the voice offered.
"True... but it means I must leave here and risk being seen."
They are gone. They believe you are dead.
"They may not. One may be waiting to ambush me."
Please... These people are not the sultan's guard; they are Parisians!
"Who invented the guillotine. A lovely contraption. They execute criminals with it now."
That would be a more fitting way to go. Quick. Clean. Sophisticated. Efficient. Such an exquisite death befitting a child of France such as yourself.
"Agreed," Erik grunted in response to his inner voice. Dying by guillotine after a trial would be more acceptable for a man of his stature. But would they offer such release for a murderer?
No, you would be paraded before the masses first! The bourgeoisie would pay pennies to see you rot in the Bastille. You would suffer more humiliation, more pity… and only then would you get the guillotine if you were lucky! There is always hard labor in the prison camps across the Atlantic.
"Send the Devil's Child to Devil's Island," Erik muttered and then laughed. The laugh grew from feeble giggles to maniacal laughter. He clenched his bare hands into fists so hard that he felt a wetness trickle between his fingers. A wracking sob of anguish shook his body.
Control yourself... Devil's Island would be a fitting place for you – no escape, no music, all beauty, and no hope. However, the authorities have to find you first in order to end your pathetic life.
In the darkness, he made his way to the stairs leading up to the cellar door. He tripped once and smacked his shin on the wooden boards. Cursing under his breath, he managed in his weakened state to push the heavy door open. His inner voice's laughter echoed in his skull painfully. The hallway was lit in a soft glow from the gas lamps lining the walls. He cringed and raised his hand to shield his blinded eyes. So, they did not find this area of my home, he thought to himself as he waited for his eyes to adjust. The fact the lamps were still lit surprised him even more. Granted, he had designed his home lights to be fed from a separate gas line from the lair, but he had suspected the worse.
Always plan for the worst, don't you?
He made his way to his bedroom to find it untouched. A small proud smile graced his lips.
Smash and grab, typical mob… Not a thought among them. They underestimated the Opera Ghost… Such…
"Fools," he choked out from a dry throat. He brushed a hand through his hair as he tried to chuckle. Instead a racking cough caught him and left him wheezing. When his breathing eased, Erik ran his hand over his face and felt the puckered and pulled skin. Vaguely, he remembered that his white mask lay upon his throne in the lair's main room.
I would risk too much in retrieving it now… Let them have their trophy if they can't have my body.
Leaning against the wall of the hallway, Erik slowly made his way to his bedroom. The room was small with only a few pieces of furniture and his coffin for a bed. On one wall, an armoire held his personal items while on the opposite wall, a side table sat beside a basin and pitcher. A small armchair rested in a corner by the foot of his coffin bed. Carefully the Phantom eased himself over to the side table. A handful of masks of various colors and sizes rested there. Erik picked up the worn, black leather, half-mask and slipped it on. He fumbled with the leather ties for a moment before tying it securely in place. He paused looking at the small hand mirror.
Why not see what you look like before you die?
When he did lift it, he saw a hollowed man gazing back at him. Layers of dirt smeared the exposed side of his face. A faint tinge of rouge marred his bottom lip. Or what he thought was rouge. His bottom lip was tender from having bitten it to stifle his sobs. He set the mirror down gently. The back of his knuckles were skinned and caked in a mixture of dried blood and earth. He could only imagine how the rest of him looked – tired, hollow, bloody, sweaty, dirty, and broken.
For a moment, he lifted his head and tilted his ear in the direction of his lair. From behind the bookcase door and down the wood paneled hallway, he couldn't hear a sound. Why would someone be waiting? How would they know he had been hiding beneath their feet? He hesitated.
I am a wanted man. I killed two men by my own hands... among others. You would lie in wait to trap a fiend.
"I would... out of revenge..." he muttered to himself. Erik found himself moving down the hallway towards the hidden door. Fresh sweat broke out on his brow as he shuffled slowly forward. As he drew near, hope fluttered in his chest that perhaps his fears were unwarranted. Upon reaching the door, his knees buckled and he sunk to the floor.
There is no one in my lair… No one waiting on the other side of the door. Not even the Persian. I can die peacefully with my broken heart, and the Persian will let Christine know… so she can return to bury me… I can die on my terms.
How long he sat on the floor by his hidden door, Erik did not know. He didn't know he had closed his eyes. The gas lamp flames shimmered softly giving the wood paneling a warm glow. My home… Mine. My terms. He numbly thought as he picked himself up and walked to his bedroom on shaky legs. Erik slumped into his padded black coffin with its satin lining. He was tired. Oh so tired of living.
The hunger pains came and went and had not come back. Past experiences had taught him as much. He welcomed the emptiness following the pain. The addition of a few drops of laudanum on his tongue helped the numbness in his heart and body immensely. Yet he felt listless, dull mentally. With effort, he pulled himself out of his coffin and trudged down the hallway. How long it took, he didn't know. He had lost track of time long ago. Without a moment's hesitation, Erik tripped the mechanism that made the door swing inward. Consequences be damned, he thought to himself sluggishly.
On well-oiled hinges, the book case door swung open easily in spite of its size and weight. Only the light from the hallway lit the lair. Yet what Erik saw made his heart break even more. His shadow stretched out before him as he walked into his "home." Only one of the gas lamps had a guttering flame; the others had been shut off so the lair didn't combust and burn down the Opera House above it. The single gas lamp was the only one to have its glass enclosure intact.
His eyes surveyed the room as they adjusted to the minimal light in the cavernous room. His desk had been turned into kindling. His piano had its massive front legs ripped out from underneath the keyboard. He did not know if the board and strings inside were still intact. A number of his books and sheet music lay in the hearth - partially burnt or simply ashes. Candles lay strewn on the Turkish rugs amid puddles of wax and burnt fibers. Shards of glass sparkled faintly in the soft light. The full length mirror from that night long ago had been smashed into a thousand pieces. The mannequin as well was gone. Only a puddle of fabric remained on the floor. Even the luxurious bed he had constructed for… her… had disappeared. Oddly enough, his gilded throne had only been hacked at with an axe. Chunks were missing, but the throne was repairable. If they had tipped it over… they could have found me, he realized with some clarity. His pristine white half-mask was nowhere to be seen. Probably as evidence of my demise, he thought to himself.
However, Erik sank to his knees as his gaze drifted to his dearest friend – his magnificent pipe organ. He heard a strangled cry and numbly realized it came from him. The pipes were dented; some bent at angles. A few of the smallest ones were completely missing. Even from his position in the room, he could tell knobs and ivories were gone. The bench had been hacked to pieces… and amid the wood kindling lay the monkey music box. Without its head and wide-eyed stare, with only a cymbal clad arm reaching out to him… the monkey was no longer a monkey but some deformed creature. Tears welled in his eyes and he held his head in his hands.
Eventually, Erik found his composure again. Feeling like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill once more, he rose to his feet and took a few steps into his lair. A large black spot by the hearth caught his attention. Apparently the mob had tried to burn down his lair. What fools… he thought. Thankfully Reason prevailed and the fire had been extinguished. Between the gas lamps and the hearth, the mob could have easily destroyed the Palais Garnier beyond all repair.
Erik's feet led him to the edge of the burn pile. He toed the burnt manuscripts, composition sheets, and books with his scuffed shoe. My life's work… My personal effects… Everything that I called mine… Destroyed. Something silver underneath some sheet music caught his eye. Crouching down, Erik gently lifted the fragile parchment and let out a strangled cry of anguish.
"How? How could I have forgotten about you?" he whispered as his fingers enclosed a small music box of silver and enamel. The music box fit easily in his hand, but its various shades of blue and green enamel had cracked. The silver edges were tarnished black from the heat and burning paper. Erik ran his thumb over the precious thing. He turned it over and noted the missing key. He felt a knot form in his throat and fresh tears blurred his vision. He wanted to scream, to rage at the fools who shattered his life… but he couldn't.
"You survived… yet again. After so much… but will I ever hear you sing again?" he choked out. Like a child, he sat on the floor cradling the music box in his hands and cried. His sobs echoed in his lair in the basement of the opera house. Because of his sorrow, he failed to hear the soft footsteps of a man approaching him. Erik caught himself when he opened his eyes to see the faint glow of candlelight illuminate him. He couldn't bring himself to look at the man who dared to enter his lair.
"Azrael..." said a familiar voice from the darkness. The Phantom tensed. Only one person called him by that hideous name.