The Unfinished Tale of the Child of Terpsichore
As discovered and told by the Weaver of the Tangled Web.
This is not an easy tale for me to share with the world. Upon having found this, the Opera Ghost's memoirs, and upon discovering exactly what the world had missed out upon for so many years, it took a great deal of courage to sit and begin to write about such a thing. I will never know how I found it; perhaps the soul of Erik himself brought my wandering feet to it. Perhaps the mind, or lack thereof, of my psychotic mother, while dragging me around so many towns in Europe as a child, was somehow still keen enough to recognize the purpose within me, and lead me to the place where one night would forever decide my future. I will never know how his memoirs found their way into my hands, or why, and neither will I ever know why I can feel him in my soul, can feel his story pouring from every crack and crevice of my mind, begging to be released into the world. I will never know why this tale speaks to me so powerfully, and moves me to such tears upon the briefest of reminders of its existence. Perhaps I was there, in that age; perhaps I am their offspring, or their reincarnation, or merely their storyteller—chosen from the thousands to be the one to shed light upon what the world has always taken as a great tragedy.
For, in truth, the tale of the Opera Ghost was not a tragedy. It was a long and tragic tale, but its ending was not tragic. Its ending was the most beautiful ending a story could ever have. Its ending is, in a word, immaculate—for truly, there is no ending. The lives of Erik and Christine Daaé ended, but their souls lived on, entwined together through eternity as no souls have ever been entwined before. And while their mortal bodies sleep eternally, dreaming of a time when warm arms embraced them, their souls live together in the now, in the today, so interlaced as to be one soul, one dream, one life.
Their story lives on; but now, I will tell you how it almost died, and how it was resuscitated from the depths of sorrow and despair, and sent soaring on angel's wings once more—pun intended.
The sections you will find before each chapter, unless marked by " A/N ", are excerpts from Erik's memoirs. To aid in avoiding confusion, I will also be including his signature farewell, "O.G.", after each excerpt. They are not, in any way, shape, or form, the entirety of his memoirs. They are merely small pieces of them, to give further insight into the works ahead. They will also be discernable by the fact that they are written in first person.
I do hope that you are able to enjoy this tale as much as have I, though it pains me to think of the trials and tribulations that the angels fought their way through, merely to be with one another. However, all their pain and misfortune was worth it, in the end, and Erik always knew it was. Always, he could forgive his angel—always, he could see the right in every wrong she made—always, he could forget that she'd caused him pain, no matter how little he could forget the pain itself. So many could never find the reason behind his actions; so many could not understand why he would forgive her. Erik did not need reasons, however.
He loved her, and that was enough.