A/N: this fic is written by me and Hope4Faith (my initial idea, she started writing it, I made it more flowery, I wrote a bit more…etc.). Please r/r. we'll love you forever if you do. sorry about the short chapters. I'm one of those irritating people that like to chop their stories up into really small bits.
Disclaimer: we don't own anything. However much we would love to own the phantom we know we'd only fight over him.
His father was not as broad as this man, nor was his hair as dark, but more than that, his father could never have even dreamed of making such music as was filling the cavern. The man's fingers moved effortlessly, so gently it seemed as if he were caressing the smooth skin of a lover rather than the cold ivory of an organ's keys. Almost without noticing it leave the boys fear vanished. He was swept up in the music, his soul carried away to places he had never seen. All the spices and emotions of far flung lands were conveyed in the undulations of the notes. The music changed and he was swept away again, to a much darker place this time. The music told of fear and sorrow and of a life lived in loneliness. The boy grew scared. It seemed that he was no longer standing in a cavern, miles below the streets of Paris. He was in the world of the music, a dark and terrible place with no love, and no hope.
The music stopped and the boy returned to the present. He was still standing in the cavern, his bare feet cold in the slight slime on the rocks. It seemed an eternity before he could even bring himself to take a breath, but when he did all his fears returned to him. Who was this man that now sat so silently at his organ? He felt drawn to him. His feet moved without him commanding them to. He was now standing at the man's shoulder. The man smelt of the spices he had heard in the music. He seemed almost more enigmatic close up. How was it that he was not afraid of this man? He knew that he should be, but surely someone who could write such beautiful music could not be a bad person.
"Quel est votre nom?"
The voice startled him. It was deep, demanded an answer. It was an entrancing voice and yet it was tinged with a note of bitterness and sadness. He was frightened, he wanted to be back in his nursery, in his mother's arms, with her reading him stories of princes and princesses. He shivered; the thin white cotton nightgown could not keep him warm enough in this damp and dismal place.
"Je demande votre nom!"
The child flinched; he was used to quiet voices, gentle voices that lulled him to sleep or laughed with him. No one at home spoke to him so harshly, no one demanded of him. Yes, his tutor may have been strict, but even he spoke to him in a kind and friendly voice.
"VOTRE NOM!"
The little boy wanted to run, but there was no where to go and his feet seemed anchored to the floor. Big frightened eyes looked for a way to escape. The man still had his back to him; maybe he would not see him run. He backed away, but lost his footing on the slippery rocks and plunged into the ice waters below. The man was there, faster then he could think, pulling him out and cradling him gently against his chest. Lucien coughed; he had swallowed some of that vile murky green water. The man sat him down on the stool in front of the organ. The child did not move he was frozen in shock and the man returned so quickly with a thick blanket that he wrapped around him and pulled half over his head, that he had no time to do anything. Once again he was picked up and cradled gently against the man's chest. He didn't want that embrace though, he wanted his mother and father and he wanted to get away from the eerie flickering candles. He was placed in the bed with the dark satin sheets once more.
"Your name child, tell me your name."
The voice was calm now, lulling him into a trance like state where nothing mattered except hearing that voice.
"Monsieur, je m'appelle Lucien."
"Good child. Now sleep little angel, daylight comes sooner then you can think." A leather-clad hand gently brushed over his eyelids, compelling him to close them, and a soft voice hummed the tune his mother always sang to him at night and so he drifted into a restful slumber dreaming of princes slaying dragons.