Author's Note: Okay. You will either love this chapter, or not be able to figure out where my crazy brain is going with this. (most likely the latter) I have decided to start taking a little more creative license than usual and have gone outside the realm of Leroux and Webber. If you look carefully (or maybe not so carefully) you can see that most of it is really tied in with the story. (No spoilers—you have to find those all by yourself)

To my Master: I am hurt that you have not reviewed my last chapter. I have given you an entire week! (which is an entire week I was stuck away from the internet) I am sure due explanations can take up at least a third of the bus ride up to camp, if that pleases my Master. Or, as is more likely, we will spend the time discussing scandal, and how Lestat ruined my life, which are one and the same subject, so… Anyways see you on Sunday!

Disclaimer: I own all of the characters, except for Erik (sniff). I still want creative license—even if it makes this fanfic a paradox. (see earlier disclaimer-chapter 3)

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Chapter 6: Little Brother of the Monastery

A young Erik rose from his simple pallet before the sun, an ungodly hour, but strangely the best time to meet with God.

He was always up this early, but usually he used this time to think.

It was so easy in the monastery to find a place of solitude and meditate on a solution to whatever particular problem his mind came up with, whether mathematical, architectural or some other oddity of the world.

Sometimes he would go to Brother Timothy for ideas on a particularly hard one.

All of the monks in the monastery were distant to Erik, except for Timothy. Timothy was one of the younger scribes at the monastery and had been Erik's tutor in everything he wanted to learn. Brother Timothy had seen the promise in the young child's eyes, and had marveled as he watched him excel at everything he tried.

Erik was working on and steadily improving his reading skills (running to Timothy whenever the words became too long) but his writing still remained atrocious. Erik had expressed his extreme dislike for the subject, and Brother Timothy had graciously refrained from forcing it on him.

But Erik's talent really shone in the realm of music. As a young infant one of the few ways to get him to stop fussing was to bring him to chapel and let him listen to the choir. There, a sense of wonder spread over Erik's tiny face at the beautiful sounds.

Erik had learned to read and write music long before he had attempted to read or write.

As soon as he was old enough to be able to stand on his own, Erik had begged to be allowed to sing in the choir. He was allowed to join at five, mainly to stop him singing throughout the halls during the days of silence. Erik promised to respect these days, and he began to sing. The choir leader found that he needed to give very little instruction to the young boy. He seemed to learn intuitively. The entire choir loved the sound of his angelic voice soaring high with the sopranos and sometimes ranging to a low alto. As he aged they found his ability to sing even bass lines with the same childlike purity. In mind and mouth song reigned as he worshipped the King of Heaven and Earth.

But for now Erik craved silence, silence by which he could hear the voice of God. His inquisitive mind had a question, a question that needed answering.

Erik wandered through the still dark, empty halls. He knew that he could supposedly converse with God anywhere, but he needed a place where he wouldn't be disturbed. He needed a place where the business of the natural world wouldn't interfere with his link to the supernatural one.

Erik finally decided on a small garden in one of the corners of the monastery. He settled himself behind the statue of two large, winged cherubim gazing serenely towards the heavens. Erik fell into silence. If there was one thing the other monks had tried to ingrain in him above all else, it was the value of silence. It enhanced your ability to listen, and to discover the smallest mysteries of the world.

Erik began his prayer. "Dear Lord God Almighty, King of Heaven, King of Earth, and Creator of Everything ever created…" Erik paused, distracted. It wasn't a day of silence, but there still shouldn't have been this much noise, this early… No, he would concentrate and finish this. Then he would satisfy his curiosity and investigate.

"God, I have a question. I'm sure you already knew that, because I've been told that you're omniscient… I want to know why… Why was I born with a messed up face?" There, he had asked. Now for an answer. It had always bothered him. It bothered the monks too, even Timothy. Though they claimed it didn't matter, he always caught them staring, even after he had fashioned a mask for himself. Erik sat in silence, and waited. No answer. The silence remained just that, silence. Erik sighed and was about to emerge into the garden when he heard two monks stalking down the corridor.

"Where is that mask-boy hiding this time?" fumed one. Erik froze, waiting for the reply. It came.

"I have no idea. I never did understand why they let that devil-marked boy remain here…" The sound faded as the two monks continued down the passageway outside the garden.

Erik fell back into the bushes and bit his lip, holding back tears. He reached up and touched the mask, his curse. Would they never accept him?

Another voice, calling him this time, brightened his mood, if only a little.

"Erik—little Brother Erik!" yelled Timothy. "Erik please come out! I have a surprise for you!"

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Author's Note:Yay! I finally wrote a chapter longer than a page! Though this is probably a one-time occurence (sigh). I will try, though. Actually I can't update for a while, because I've been a horrible procrastinator when it comes to summer homework, so I need to use this week when I'm finally home to catch up. (ahhhh! Life's not fair!)