Chapter 1
The world was dark, with shadows floating across the forest floor. The wind danced through the treetops smothering the night with the sound of rustling leaves. A lone girl sat beneath the boughs of an ancient oak, mumbling as she furiously worked on the sheet of paper in her lap. A pencil flew across the page as the young one drew-her mind overflowing the images embedded in her head for as long as she could remember.
She drew the Phantom.
The man her mother had loved until her dying breath.
The man whose memory still haunted her mourning father.
Belle was the only child of Christine Daaé and the Viscount Raoul de Chagny, the count who had supported the Opera House when her mother had made her debut. For all intents and purposes, after her mother's death, Belle was an orphan who longed to know the man whom her mother loved.
A frown slowly made its way onto her pale skin-the picture she drew just wasn't right. She had always had an image of the elusive man in her head, and yet, she could never seem to capture his essence in any of the works she composed; her art always left her desiring more. Even the crystal voice she had inherited from her mother seemed to falter when it came to the Phantom, to Erik. Her father was never supportive of her slight obsession with the man of shadows, but Christine hadn't cared. In a way, she even encouraged her daughter's behavior. As Belle aged, Christine's tales became more vivid, more detailed, more romantic, and Belle longed for a man who would love her as the Phantom had loved her mother. In fact, Christine often wished it was she whom the Phantom adored, not her mother. Though, perhaps the 18 year old was not actually ready for the answer to her request.
More often than not, Belle would sit across from the grave of her mother as she worked. Sometimes she felt eyes upon her, but no one ever came when she cried out. Each time, Belle grew slightly more exasperated-her pleas for the Phantom were falling upon deaf ears. Belle knew the Phantom still visited her mother; his tell-tale roses with black ribbon assured that.
But no one would come.
No one would respond.
Belle grunted as she ripped the page from her notebook and shredded it. Perhaps spending so much time in the cemetery wasn't good for her. This was not to say, however, that she was an unattractive woman, for the case was actually the opposite. Her long brown hair laid in ringlets to her tiny waist. Her lithe form was curvy, with luscious hips and grab-able thighs. Her bust was slightly more pronounced than her mother's was. Her skin was pale and creamy, without blemish. Her most flattering feature, however, was undoubtedly her eyes. Long lashes grazed the top of flushed cheeks as she rested, and framed the sparkling brown eyes when awake. A ring laid upon her bust, strung on a silver chain. 'Twas the very ring which Christine had returned to the Phantom before disappearing with Raoul. The ring which was found upon her mother's headstone after her death.
Belle always polished the stone and placed the Phantom's roses in a vase. After her father bought the musical monkey, Belle care for it as well. Yet, she was compelled to never let it play, for the surprising fear of retribution occurring. Day after day, the monkey sat-silent and still.
For a long while, Belle dropped her book to stare at the contraption. Her curls blew in the wind and her cape swirled around her. Her horse stamped impatiently not 10 feet from her. Suddenly, the arms moved, clanging together. Belle jumped to her feet and knelt beside the grave of her mother.
Slow and crackling from years of stalling, a tune began to play.
Masquerade...
Paper faces on display
Masquerade...
Everything froze for a moment, before it all began to spin. The horse reared and sprinted away, and Belle could only watch as her hair and clothes were whipped around in the fierce winds which followed.
She did as any sensible woman would have done.
She fainted.