Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except Erik I and my wedding ring. That's pretty
much all the stuff of extreme value that I have. . .
A/N: This story was inspired by God knows what, but I like it. Excuse my odd ideas of what the backstage of a theatre looks like; truth is I've never been backstage. If you have, I envy you, and flames about that topic will be used to burn the evil book. *glares at The Phantom of Manhattan* But reviewing would be nice.*le hint hint* Reviewers will receive a hug because I like hugs ^-^ Fwee.
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:Prologue:
Death.
A simple word, yet so complex. A word whose effect was about to befall the man broken hearted.
The man.
Yes, the man. The man behind the mask. Erik.
Erik. . .
His own name repeated itself in his mind as he ran his bony fingers over his masterpiece, Don Juan Triumphant. Now, that was all he had. And death. Either was the world, and yet neither was enough.
After three days slaving over the opera, Erik felt immensely tired, something very rare. But his opera was not done, and he would not allow himself to die before it was complete.
Gracefully, Erik climbed into his coffin, used as a bed, and closed his eyes, believing that he could live for one more day. He drifted into a cold and dreamless sleep, breath slow and quiet. One more day, that was all he had to suffer. Then he could be at peace.
But perhaps more than one day. . .and somewhere different. . .only God knew. . .
A/N: This story was inspired by God knows what, but I like it. Excuse my odd ideas of what the backstage of a theatre looks like; truth is I've never been backstage. If you have, I envy you, and flames about that topic will be used to burn the evil book. *glares at The Phantom of Manhattan* But reviewing would be nice.*le hint hint* Reviewers will receive a hug because I like hugs ^-^ Fwee.
-------------------------------------------------
:Prologue:
Death.
A simple word, yet so complex. A word whose effect was about to befall the man broken hearted.
The man.
Yes, the man. The man behind the mask. Erik.
Erik. . .
His own name repeated itself in his mind as he ran his bony fingers over his masterpiece, Don Juan Triumphant. Now, that was all he had. And death. Either was the world, and yet neither was enough.
After three days slaving over the opera, Erik felt immensely tired, something very rare. But his opera was not done, and he would not allow himself to die before it was complete.
Gracefully, Erik climbed into his coffin, used as a bed, and closed his eyes, believing that he could live for one more day. He drifted into a cold and dreamless sleep, breath slow and quiet. One more day, that was all he had to suffer. Then he could be at peace.
But perhaps more than one day. . .and somewhere different. . .only God knew. . .