Thank you to those who have followed this so far. Of course it goes without saying that I do not own Phantom of the Opera. This is written for entertainment only.
Enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated, and if anyone has any suggestions or requests, let me know.
To say that Erik had led an unhappy life would be putting it delicately. Tall, lean, terrifying Erik, with the voice of an angel and the form of a devil. Not that he believed in angels or demons. No, the world of fancy had long since been shattered for him. He was a man grounded in reason.
Reason was what guided him as a child to flee from his mother's hatred. It was what helped him bide his time with the gypsies, learning their secrets and tricks. A sharp mind shaped his works of terror and doom in Persia, and that selfsame wit was what got him from that desert nightmare alive. His pure talent in architecture gave him the opportunity to design his own home, and his own powerful hands built the many tunnels and trapdoors in the bowels of the building, masonry being just one of many skills he'd had to hone. Yes, Erik was the master of this overgrown ant farm, and they, poor insects, did not even know it.
Erik could not believe in the fantastic, not after what he had seen and done. To believe in the superstitions of others was to believe that he himself was evil from birth, that he had been cursed while in the womb. The evil eye was upon him, or so the gypsies had bewailed, and the devil himself could not look upon his distorted face without cringing. No, he put no stock in that, nor did he have much use for others. Others were what caused the intensive scars on his back as well as his psyche. Others were not to be trusted, and they most definitely weren't worth the trouble.
Still, some things could not be accomplished alone. Opera houses could not be constructed by one set of hands, nor could the operas themselves be performed by one voice, no matter how talented. One had need of others to do the petty and the mundane, to stitch his fine clothes, forge metal for his home, and dip the wax for the many candles he required. He dealt with them indirectly, through notes and messengers, never showing his face to anyone. Even Madame Giry, his one steadfast connection in the opera house, did not make direct contact with him, and that was just how he desire it.
In his subterranean home he would toil and rage over his music, the only constant companion in his isolation. Its swirling themes and thrilling counter-melodies, the deep haunting baselines that seemed to vibrate in his chest, and most of all the vocals! Oh, to put to words the song of his sorrow, to express the ever burgeoning depth of his despair with the seductive beauty of music seemed to be the reason for his existence. For days and night he would stay awake, scribbling frantically on paper the notes he felt inside until his long fingers ceased to function and his forearm (for he was left handed, another supposed sign of his evil nature) was covered in ink. Composing until there was nothing left to feel, he would then retire to his coffin bed and dream despite himself.
Music, reason, and his beloved darkness. It was all he wanted to know, everything else an annoyance. Sure there was the occasional distraction, the deliciously sweet song of morphine, the ever useful tools of illusion and ventriloquism, and the ever seductive call for bloodshed now and then, but music...that was what gave him purpose, what kept him from being a mindless addict or an insatiable murderer.
Yes, it was all he needed, until he met Christine.
Sweet, lovely, sad Christine! Such a beautiful girl when she first was led into his opera house, but so very melancholy. The other young girls being ushered through its doors were much more outgoing, more ambitious and displaying much more talent at first glance, and his poor Christine stuck out like a sore thumb. Dressed in somber colors to symbolize her mourning, she did not speak to many, keeping to her lessons and little else.
At first he tried to ignore the young girl. She was so very young, surely no older than thirteen, and the idea crossed his mind that it was inappropriate for him to watch over her like a vulture in the rafters. Easier said than done, for he saw in her eyes the mirror image of his own loneliness, and it was heartbreaking enough that he fled to the darkest depths of his dungeons to rage in his music and answer the siren call of the needle. For days he dwelt in the euphoric glow of the morphine, warm and numb and weightless, and he did not think of the girl with chocolate curls and sad blue eyes.
Eventually, however, he came down from his high, and as he lay leaden against the organ, his mind went back to her. Not as a man looks at a woman, no, for he was not a monster to lust after such a young girl, but he did feel ashamed all the same. Erik felt so very ashamed, for his thoughts dwelt on someone so pure and sweet, and those thoughts weren't always honorable. Sure, he had this strange desire to protect her, to keep that sad look out of her eyes, for he was sure that she would look lovely in a smile, and yet there was another, darker part of him that wanted to see what she'd do when all the light was snuffed from her life. Would she rise from the ashes of her life or hurl herself into the pit? He felt such a connection with her, that they were kindred spirits in their misery, and the old familiar ache for companionship clenched in his chest once more. It didn't matter. She would never know of him. It was better for them both.
As she grew older, however, Erik saw how hard it was to stay away. The attributes that had made her so striking for him were still there, but there was something else as well. He noted the slump in her shoulders that increased with the years, as though her one shining hope was fading. Danger, the word flashed when he looked at her, but of course that was ridiculous. She was barely one hundred pounds soaking wet, what danger could she hold? Despite her increased lassitude, she grew more and more lovely, her body becoming curved and womanly. Only her voice kept her back. At times Erik would ponder how he might shape it into a masterpiece to rival heaven, but the thoughts were always stomped down. He would not approach her, not yet.
Eventually five years had passed, and Erik felt that he'd made quite the fool of himself. Down in the dark of his home he'd finished a room for Christine replete with furniture, clothes and other sundries. He had written arias for her, even if she did sound like a "rusted hinge" to those in the opera house; Erik knew promise when he heard it. The potential in her had yet to be unlocked, but he thought he could do so, if the right moment ever presented itself.
As if that weren't enough to prove his pitiable and strange devotion, he had started leaving little gifts where she would find them, trinkets, paper flowers, sketches, little novelties that made a ghostly smile appear on her face. Erik found he lived for those moments, hiding in the walls and waiting for her face to light up like the sun before the cloud of sadness drifted across it once more. Maybe he was what the little ballet rats whispered, a monster, for surely he acted as one to watch her so, but he could not stop. Ensnarement, that was the danger she possessed, and she had properly snared his monstrous self without being aware of it.
In the span of those years, Erik had observed her faltering faith, and that, perhaps more than her sorrow, was so very compelling to him. He knew that struggle to understand God's silence, and if she could shrug off the shackles of faith, how liberated she would feel afterwards. She visited the chapel every few days, lighting a candle for her father and whispering soft prayers in her sweet, cherubic voice. He tried not to listen, but Erik found it impossible to resist.
An Angel of Music? She plead with her father to send him quickly, that Mama Valerius was dying, and she could not stand the thought of being alone. At first she would weep when she said it, but her frequent visits made it easier, until finally she stopped asking altogether.
For a week he did not see her at all, and then she was back, pale faced and clothed in black once more. Her Mama Valerius had passed, and with it went the little light of her hope. Erik found he did not like seeing her without it as much as he thought he would, and he made plans to make his presence known the next time she visited the chapel. He did not think it would take her so long to get back there, nor that she would try to kill herself.
His sweet little innocent entered the chapel, pale as a sheet in the small light she carried. With poise and acceptance she lit candles for her father and her Mama Valerius and knelt before the altar, whispering prayers for forgiveness. She seemed calm until she took the dagger in hand and held it to her breast; her hands shook so violently after that. He thought she would not do it, but she started pushing the dagger forward. The strangest smile lit her face, and it made his stomach churn to see it. She would not do this.
"Stop!" he called out, opening a trapdoor and causing gusts of wind to extinguish the lights. His Christine glanced around, calling out and looking mad in that moment before bringing the dagger back up to her trembling breast.
Without a sound Erik came forward, confident that she could not see him in the dark chapel, and just as she brought the knife down again, intent on her mission, he seized it, tossing it carelessly away from them both. She blinked and stared blindly, but he saw the wonderment in her eyes. Uncertainty gripped him for but a moment, and then he spoke.
"You must cease this, Christine." Erik sternly said. "Stand and live, and do not attempt this foolishness again. The world is a better place with your beauty in it."
Christine did not speak, but he witnessed a strange and beautiful transformation flicker across her features. She was grateful, Erik saw it, but he had trouble believing it. Never had anyone made that face after something he had done. Of course, it was dark, and he knew the beauty of his own voice. It was the one redeeming quality of his deathly form, the one attribute he possessed that could inspire something other than fear. So yes, he reasoned, she was distracted by his words. Surely that would be the end of it.
Except that it wasn't the end at all. She reach out blindly, clutching at thin air before her hands finally landed on his cloak. Erik fought the urge to jerk the fabric free of her hands and instead watched in mild horror as she wept, kissing the hem of his garment like he was Christ performing miracles. He had to say something, anything to get her to stop her strange worship. Her sobs continued on until he could stand it no more.
"Why do you weep, sweet Christine?" Against his better judgement he moved forward, his hand very close to touching her. The first human contact he would have had in so long...
"It is only that I have waited a lifetime for you, Angel." She whispered softly, and his hand stilled its movement. He did not answer, did not move, did not breathe. Something in his mind screamed at him to stop being such a fool(after all, she was half-mad with grief), but a greater bit was rejoicing, urging him forward.
He must have taken a dreadfully long while, for Christine tugged on his cloak and spoke to him again.
"Angel?" she murmured, "Please...h-have you nothing to say?"
"What would you have me say, Christine?" He could have kicked himself for responding, but hadn't he wanted to speak with her for years? Never mind she thought him an angel, she asked for his words, and that was enough for now. Her renewed sobs, on the other hand, had to stop. "Christine?"
"Say anything that pleases you, mon ange, only stay." Her face was buried in his cloak, and she had begun to shake in earnest. Nearly kicking himself for what he was about to do, Erik reached out, touching her shoulder.
"Christine, Christine." His voice was a psalm, her name so sweet on his lips, and her tears slowed. Softly he sang a tune, a winding melody that he had penned, and her trembling stopped, shoulders sagging in relief.
For a long time he sang, his golden voice filling the dark room with warmth and beauty, and at last Christine's grip on his cloak loosened. When finally his song ended, she looked up at him in what he thought was wonder. Such a strange reaction, when surely she should have been afraid of his strange eyes. Instead her own were round and bright, her lips curved into a sweet smile as she studied his eyes.
"Ange, do you have a name?" she murmured in a daze.
Strange. So very strange that he should be asked for his name. It had been nearly ten years since anyone had asked for his name, and he certainly never volunteered the information. Naming something gave one dominion over it, and Erik was not one to be controlled. Still, could he ever refuse her, the woman he had loved from afar for years? No matter that she thought him an angel, if only she kept speaking to him.
"Erik." He answered, and he was quite proud that his voice did not shake. He saw her smile at the information.
"Erik." she repeated fondly, and that's when he knew for certain. Such a sweet, terrible, terminal ache in his monstrous chest.
Erik was lost.