A/n: Hello everyone! I really hope you enjoy this phic. I just came up with
this idea, so it may not be as good as my other phic, which I had basically
planned for a month before I wrote it.
I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. I prefer to think Gaston Leroux does. I do not own Othello, The Moor of Venice, either- Shakespeare wrote it.
WARNING: Raoul will enter this story in the future. I won't bash Raoul. I like him.
// = italics
** = read
~~~~~~
Prologue
~~~~~~
Paris, 1882
The knife's edge gleamed in the candlelight. Oh, how he wanted to plunge it into his heart. Yet...something held him back.
He should have died long ago. He had been so close to death after she had left him...yet somehow he survived the first few months. He had recovered from his broken heart (if you called it recovering). His heart condition slowly disappeared. Of course, it had started when he had met Christine, so why shouldn't it go with her? Right when it seemed a good thing.
So why could he not kill himself? What stayed his hand? Was he...afraid?
No. He had stopped fearing death long ago. He knew why he couldn't commit suicide.
His thoughts were haunted by Christine. He was constantly wondering where she was, what she was doing. He couldn't kill himself until he knew for certain she was happy.
So he set the knife aside, and reached for his mask, and paused. He stood, and walked into his room. He took the mask he had made (the one that made his look like anyone) from its place in a secret drawer. He put it on. He still wasn't used to its feel, but it was the best one he had.
He left his house, in order to buy a few newspapers.
~~~~~
Chapter One: A Stranger
~~~~
Paris, 1884
*Oth. No, his mouth is stopp'd;
Honest Iago hath ta'en order for't.
Des. O, my fear interprets!-What, is he dead?
Oth. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge
Had stomach for them all.
Des. Alas, he is betray'd, and I undone!
Oth. Out, stumpet! Weep'st thou for him to my face?
Des. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not!
Oth. Down, strumpet!
Des. Kill me to-morrow; let me live tonight!
Oth. Nay, if you strive,-
Des. But half an hour!
Oth. Being done, there is no pause.
Des. But while I say one prayer!
Oth. It is too late. [smothers her]
Emil. [Within.] My lord, my lord! What, ho! My lord, my lord!
Oth. What noise is this?—not dead? Not yet quite dead?
I that am cruel am yet merciful;
I would not have thee linger in thy pain:--
So, so.*
Rose Hart closed the book slowly, and sighed. She'd been sitting in the foyer waiting for her brother long enough-she ought to go to her dressing room to collect her things, and walk home. She stood and began to walk for her room.
She was proud at how far she had gotten in the book in only four days. At this rate she could complete her goal of reading Shakespeare's works within a year. She was a much faster reader then she thought she was.
She was deep in thought about Othello and Desdemona's doomed love, that she hadn't been paying attention to things around her. So she didn't realize-until it was too late-that she was going to run into someone.
"Oh," she said softly, looking up to see the man she ran bumped into. "I'm sorry."
"It's alright. I wasn't paying much attention to my surroundings." He said.
"Neither was I." Rose said, smiling.
He glanced down at her book.
"Othello?" he asked. Rose nodded. "It's very good. My personal favorite of Shakespeare's works."
Rose's eyes brightened. "You've read all of them?"
"Yes." He answered, giving a faint smile. "A few times."
Rose smiled brightly. "Wow. I've just barely started."
"Have you read any others yet?"
"Just 'As You Like It'. I'm planning on reading Macbeth next."
He nodded. Rose tried to stop herself from staring at his eyes. They were beautiful-a very golden brown. His hair was raven black, and he was extremely tall. Rose couldn't quite tell how tall- 6'8" at the very least. He was quite handsome, though his skin was almost as white as paper. He was very thin, and had unnaturally long fingers, and from the little Rose had seen of him, he was extremely graceful, almost like a cat. He also gave off an almost dark aura of mystery and power, an aura that almost would have frightened Rose, if she had not already been so mesmerized by the utter beauty of his voice. Surely he had just replaced the lead tenor (they desperately needed a new one anyway).
"Do you work here?" he asked.
Rose nodded. "I'm in the chorus." She answered.
He nodded again. He himself found it difficult not to stare at her eyes, which were a reddish brown, however, her dark red dress made them seem much more red then they were. Her hair was dark brown, down a little past her shoulders, and had slight curls at the end. She was quite pretty, though not breathtakingly beautiful. She had a healthy, rosy complexion and was almost 5'7", and was quite slender. She herself was rather graceful (though not near as graceful as he was), as if she had taken ballet for a few years. A smile was constantly on his face, and when there was not, she still had a smile in her eyes. Her voice was light and sweet and clear, polished by many excruciating hours of practice.
"Do you work here, as well?" she asked, a smile playing at her lips.
"Yes. I am the first chair violinist."
Rose tried to hide her surprise at him not being a singer. Honestly, it was almost a sin he wasn't.
"Oh." Rose said. "What is your name, if you do not mind my asking?"
"Not at all. My name is..." he hesitated. "Michael l'Angle. And yours, if I may ask?"
"Rose Hart."
"Pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle."
She smiled. "Pleasure to meet you, as well, Monsieur."
"Rehearsals have been over for quite a while, Mademoiselle Hart. Why are you still here?"
"My brother was supposed to come pick me up. He must have forgotten again. I was just going to gather my things to walk home."
"I could pay for a cab for you." He answered. Rose blushed and smiled.
"Oh, no that won't be necessary, thank you."
"It's no trouble at all." He said, walking forward, his hand lightly touching her elbow, guiding her along with him.
"I can walk, it is not really that far." Rose objected, but he ignored her.
"How long have you worked here, Mademoiselle Hart?"
Rose sighed, defeated, and laughed nonetheless.
"For two months or so. And you, Monsieur l'Angle?"
"I have just started."
"Hmm."
They stepped outside, and he hailed a cab for her. She stepped in and gave the address, and Michael handed the money to driver.
"Farewell, Mademoiselle Hart. Perhaps we shall speak again."
Rose nodded. "Farewell."
~~~~~
I am sorry it is so short. I hope this is good enough. I'm not certain if this will work out, so please leave me a review telling me how well I did, and any mistakes I should fix. Flames will not be noticed, however.
'l'Angle' is supposed to be 'Angel' in French, but I am not sure if it's correct (my source was not entirely reliable). If you know the correct word, please let me know.
If you're wondering why Erik changed his name, well...you'll simply have to wait and see, now, won't you? ^_^
Roses,
PhantomessAbigail
I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. I prefer to think Gaston Leroux does. I do not own Othello, The Moor of Venice, either- Shakespeare wrote it.
WARNING: Raoul will enter this story in the future. I won't bash Raoul. I like him.
// = italics
** = read
~~~~~~
Prologue
~~~~~~
Paris, 1882
The knife's edge gleamed in the candlelight. Oh, how he wanted to plunge it into his heart. Yet...something held him back.
He should have died long ago. He had been so close to death after she had left him...yet somehow he survived the first few months. He had recovered from his broken heart (if you called it recovering). His heart condition slowly disappeared. Of course, it had started when he had met Christine, so why shouldn't it go with her? Right when it seemed a good thing.
So why could he not kill himself? What stayed his hand? Was he...afraid?
No. He had stopped fearing death long ago. He knew why he couldn't commit suicide.
His thoughts were haunted by Christine. He was constantly wondering where she was, what she was doing. He couldn't kill himself until he knew for certain she was happy.
So he set the knife aside, and reached for his mask, and paused. He stood, and walked into his room. He took the mask he had made (the one that made his look like anyone) from its place in a secret drawer. He put it on. He still wasn't used to its feel, but it was the best one he had.
He left his house, in order to buy a few newspapers.
~~~~~
Chapter One: A Stranger
~~~~
Paris, 1884
*Oth. No, his mouth is stopp'd;
Honest Iago hath ta'en order for't.
Des. O, my fear interprets!-What, is he dead?
Oth. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge
Had stomach for them all.
Des. Alas, he is betray'd, and I undone!
Oth. Out, stumpet! Weep'st thou for him to my face?
Des. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not!
Oth. Down, strumpet!
Des. Kill me to-morrow; let me live tonight!
Oth. Nay, if you strive,-
Des. But half an hour!
Oth. Being done, there is no pause.
Des. But while I say one prayer!
Oth. It is too late. [smothers her]
Emil. [Within.] My lord, my lord! What, ho! My lord, my lord!
Oth. What noise is this?—not dead? Not yet quite dead?
I that am cruel am yet merciful;
I would not have thee linger in thy pain:--
So, so.*
Rose Hart closed the book slowly, and sighed. She'd been sitting in the foyer waiting for her brother long enough-she ought to go to her dressing room to collect her things, and walk home. She stood and began to walk for her room.
She was proud at how far she had gotten in the book in only four days. At this rate she could complete her goal of reading Shakespeare's works within a year. She was a much faster reader then she thought she was.
She was deep in thought about Othello and Desdemona's doomed love, that she hadn't been paying attention to things around her. So she didn't realize-until it was too late-that she was going to run into someone.
"Oh," she said softly, looking up to see the man she ran bumped into. "I'm sorry."
"It's alright. I wasn't paying much attention to my surroundings." He said.
"Neither was I." Rose said, smiling.
He glanced down at her book.
"Othello?" he asked. Rose nodded. "It's very good. My personal favorite of Shakespeare's works."
Rose's eyes brightened. "You've read all of them?"
"Yes." He answered, giving a faint smile. "A few times."
Rose smiled brightly. "Wow. I've just barely started."
"Have you read any others yet?"
"Just 'As You Like It'. I'm planning on reading Macbeth next."
He nodded. Rose tried to stop herself from staring at his eyes. They were beautiful-a very golden brown. His hair was raven black, and he was extremely tall. Rose couldn't quite tell how tall- 6'8" at the very least. He was quite handsome, though his skin was almost as white as paper. He was very thin, and had unnaturally long fingers, and from the little Rose had seen of him, he was extremely graceful, almost like a cat. He also gave off an almost dark aura of mystery and power, an aura that almost would have frightened Rose, if she had not already been so mesmerized by the utter beauty of his voice. Surely he had just replaced the lead tenor (they desperately needed a new one anyway).
"Do you work here?" he asked.
Rose nodded. "I'm in the chorus." She answered.
He nodded again. He himself found it difficult not to stare at her eyes, which were a reddish brown, however, her dark red dress made them seem much more red then they were. Her hair was dark brown, down a little past her shoulders, and had slight curls at the end. She was quite pretty, though not breathtakingly beautiful. She had a healthy, rosy complexion and was almost 5'7", and was quite slender. She herself was rather graceful (though not near as graceful as he was), as if she had taken ballet for a few years. A smile was constantly on his face, and when there was not, she still had a smile in her eyes. Her voice was light and sweet and clear, polished by many excruciating hours of practice.
"Do you work here, as well?" she asked, a smile playing at her lips.
"Yes. I am the first chair violinist."
Rose tried to hide her surprise at him not being a singer. Honestly, it was almost a sin he wasn't.
"Oh." Rose said. "What is your name, if you do not mind my asking?"
"Not at all. My name is..." he hesitated. "Michael l'Angle. And yours, if I may ask?"
"Rose Hart."
"Pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle."
She smiled. "Pleasure to meet you, as well, Monsieur."
"Rehearsals have been over for quite a while, Mademoiselle Hart. Why are you still here?"
"My brother was supposed to come pick me up. He must have forgotten again. I was just going to gather my things to walk home."
"I could pay for a cab for you." He answered. Rose blushed and smiled.
"Oh, no that won't be necessary, thank you."
"It's no trouble at all." He said, walking forward, his hand lightly touching her elbow, guiding her along with him.
"I can walk, it is not really that far." Rose objected, but he ignored her.
"How long have you worked here, Mademoiselle Hart?"
Rose sighed, defeated, and laughed nonetheless.
"For two months or so. And you, Monsieur l'Angle?"
"I have just started."
"Hmm."
They stepped outside, and he hailed a cab for her. She stepped in and gave the address, and Michael handed the money to driver.
"Farewell, Mademoiselle Hart. Perhaps we shall speak again."
Rose nodded. "Farewell."
~~~~~
I am sorry it is so short. I hope this is good enough. I'm not certain if this will work out, so please leave me a review telling me how well I did, and any mistakes I should fix. Flames will not be noticed, however.
'l'Angle' is supposed to be 'Angel' in French, but I am not sure if it's correct (my source was not entirely reliable). If you know the correct word, please let me know.
If you're wondering why Erik changed his name, well...you'll simply have to wait and see, now, won't you? ^_^
Roses,
PhantomessAbigail