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~Chapter 1~

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Let it never be said that the streets of Paris were kind to the unfortunate; men and women, children and creatures all alike, lacking the fine vestiges of the contrived God belonging to their fellow brethren. A fantastic ideal it was that should it ever be achieved, would raise an individual to the status quo that he so deserved and of which all men seemed to long so desperately for - the position to look down upon other men, a rank that of God.

Of course, like all other religions, it changes with time and bends to its people's whims and fancies. What men say is true, it shall be true. What goal men want, the goal shall be the purpose of God. What men sneer upon, those poor, unfortunate souls would be damned by the Lord. Creatures so vile that there was no question of the evil lying within their shrivelled, fiery souls.

She had believed with every fibre of her being in her Father, so much so that when the long awaited child had finally come, it was not cries of joy, but of fear and prayer that had left her lips. He was the spawn of the devil, they had all whispered in the silence of nighttimes forever denied.

She did not take it to heart, their words, but it was less than a fortnight before the child, wrapped in lace and velvet, was left crying and damned in his hands. Feeling generous, he kept him. He had long since been rejected by the Father and had in doing so, made himself the God of his own person. The child, he decided would make a fine addition; the center star to his tree of sins. So young was he that his very being could be moulded into whatever he pleased.

And now, ten years later, the child sits, thoughts and phantom memories of lace and cloth wrapped so lovingly around him all but forgotten. The rough sensation of hay scratching against his knees and the blind sneers of children ensconcing his otherwise translucent soul.

When she came, it was not the sympathy from her heart that saved his soul, but the miracle of his voice. A bag covering a face so hideous had allowed the ecstasy hidden within his being to gleam, for the one damned by hell had a gift crafted by God.

And so she stole him away to a building so handsome in his eyes that he would vow to stay there till his dying breath. There, hidden amongst the crevices, he'd begun the second leg of his life, a life full of luxuries he had thought only possible in the broken fragments of his mind. They came to accept his ugly face, for an opera appreciates a fine voice more than a fine visage. Besides, makeup and costumes can make even the most hideous tolerable.

There he sang and sang and he met him.

The Viconte's son was the perfect image of all things desirable: tall, handsome and bagged with riches enough to last three comfortable lifetimes. He envied him. For where his hair was golden-spun and thick, his was dark and thin; where his eyes were blue and welcoming, his were pale, frightened and frightening, Where he was the center of attention, he was nothing but a whisper, slipping between lips during those bleak, bleak, bleak nighttimes forever denied. Where he was tall and loved, he was small and ghastly thin, a result of years spent surrounded by hatred and greed.

"I like your eyes, they speak of something deeper." The boy whispers to him, slipping a small bag of sweets into his hands.

He scoffs in return, scurrying back into the fissures of his alcove.

"It's okay if you are small, I believe it suits you." The boy tries yet again, shoving a stuffed creature into his arms.

He glares and runs, but that night, tucks the doll quietly beneath his covers. It fascinates him, this strange contraption.

It is also warm and soft and it stirs vague memories of touches he had believed long forgotten.

"Let us be friends." He is pleading now, a small coat in his hands. "You mustn't go out in such weather."

But he ignores him, singing and dangling his paper legs over the rooftops of his palace. He imagines pushing off, flying across the great expanse of the city sky, wanting to admire all the riches and beautiful Gods of this world that had long since rejected him.

"Stop singing!"

He stills. Of all the things that the world has denied him, his voice, his one and only means to their life, has never been one of them.

"I don't like your voice."

This catches his attention. To say that he is shocked is to say that people are merely vain; they are far more than vain, he knows that.

"It is a good voice, I must admit," the boy backtracks, bowing slightly. "I merely wish you not rely on it so. When I see you, you are always singing. I believe I have yet to actually hear you speak. It is as if you are a music box rather than a person."

"I have never been merely a person," he finds himself saying. He dislikes this boy who has lived such a sheltered life. No disarming feelings of doubt or inadequacy shall ever cloud his mind and why should they? He is rich, beloved and handsome.

He is also kind.

He hates that about the golden boy and it makes his heart feel wretched. He must be as ugly on the inside as he is on the outside to turn away from one of the few to have ever shown him even a semblance of compassion. But he cannot help his emotions just as men cannot help their lust. They may rationalize such endeavours, but it will always be there because men are weak and so is he.

It is the one similarity they will always share.

"That is what all people say," the boy scoffs, "It is how they justify injustice." He comes up, no longer afraid and drapes the cloak over his shoulders.

"Come now, the cook has hot soup waiting for us."

He lets himself be dragged to a warm hearth and a bowl of watery broth that had long since turned tepid in his absence. The fussy cook scolds him as he had expected her to, but she has always had a soft spot for small, broken creatures like himself. He escapes with only a light knocking of his ears.

The golden boy (he has taken to calling him that) escorts him back to his room. It is a long journey filled with winding staircases, wool draped doors and a ladder to boot. His room is small, all shadows and soft edges. His bed, more of a nest than a bed truly, lies hidden under a small alcove carved into the stones. He has always enjoyed these secret crevices where he could hide, tucked safely away from the world.

"I meant what I said earlier," the golden boy looks down at him, his face too serious for a child his age. "We shall be friends from now on. Whatever troubles you carry, you may bring to me and I will do all I can to rid them from your mind; you have my word."

He could only laugh, for what good was the word of a boy?

"No better than the word of a man."

He hadn't realized his blunder, but the boy, no man's, words, however naive they are, make him smile, a grotesque smile to be sure, but a smile nonetheless.

The boy brightens at this. "It is settled then, I shall come visit you soon."

He watches him turn away only to stop and turn back, bright eyes determined and curious.

"If we are to be friends, I would know your name."

He hesitates. A name; he has had many names in his lifetime: Monster, Demon, Devil, Child, Thief...

Erik

Like a whisper, it comes quietly to him. Yes, it is this that is his true name...or so he hopes.

"I am Erik."

The boy smiles, wide and bright.

"Mine's Raoul. It is a pleasure to finally know your name, Erik."

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Thanks for reading :)