A/N: Whew... I just had my first day of my vacation job and boy am I dead on my feet! Meanwhile, here is chapter 8!

Guest: Hello! :D

icanhearthedrums: Nope, I don't think I'll keep his drug addiction going; I wrote a small line on how he suffered the after effects of cold turkey on the boat to Paris, and I think I'll keep it at that! (: I don't have too much experience with drug abuse, so I don't think I could write a very convincing morphine-addict Erik. (:

Masked Man 2: I'm glad you enjoyed it! Your comments always make me feel great about writing. To be honest though, I can't take credit for the Sultana being the mother- I'm pretty sure quite a few fanfics have that too, and probably Kay! (I can't remember about Kay though). It does make a lot more sense to me for the mother to be Sultana though, because I doubt a father, no matter how indulgent, would let his daughter build a torture chamber etc. Plus, being so evil tends to come with a bit of age and experience, I guess. (:

To new followers/favouriters: Dundedan Ranger & 302, thank you so much! (:

To all readers, please read/review/favourite/follow/let me know what you think! 3

xx hazel

Chapter 8: Princess Rose

Paris, 1892

Erik strolled through the dusty old secret passages leading around the opera house, inhaling lungful after lungful of musty, stale air. The passages were mostly very dirty and some were falling apart from a lack of usage, but it was home. For the first time in ten years, Erik finally felt at home. He walked through every secret passageway that he had ever discovered, running his hands over smooth stone and chipping whitewash, cracked bricks and old tiles. He triggered all the old levers, some still in working condition, and some slightly rusty, and he noted the ones that would need to be changed or oiled. He pressed the buttons of the hidden doors, feeling a great sense of satisfaction as they swung open to reveal even more secret passages. This was home.

He was passing by the ballet rats' dormitories when he heard high-pitched voices call out a very familiar name.

"Amélie, Amélie! Show us your music box again!" A chorus of voices sounded. Erik quickly peered through a small hole in the wall, and saw a girl sitting on her bed, surrounded by a gaggle of younger ballet rats who were still in their practice leotards. They were clamouring for her to show them something. "Amélie, please do show it to us! And tell us a story!"

"Girls! Quieten down first! I can barely hear myself over all of you." She scolded them. Erik looked at the girl, surprised at how much she sounded like Antoinette. Is that little Amélie? The same Amélie-Rose?

Upon closer inspection, he saw that the girl had russet locks, pulled back with a bright red ribbon in a high ponytail, hanging in a straight sheet down her back. Her bright blue eyes twinkled merrily as she surveyed the little girls around her. The image brought back happier memories of days long past, of a cheerful, bouncy little girl with a head full of russet curls, and those same twinkling blue eyes, jumping happily around the room as he told her stories. Erik blinked in surprise. He had not thought to ask Antoinette about Amélie when he had met her earlier, but it seemed that Amélie was here, well and alive.

"Amélie, will you tell us the story about the knight and the princess in the red dress again? Please?"

"Alright girls, but after that you all have to wash up and get ready for bed, is that clear? Now gather around and listen up." She arranged herself more comfortably upon the bed, and placed her beloved music box carefully upon her lap. Erik's eyes widened slightly when he saw it. Is that… the same… music box I made her? And yet it was unmistakable, with the little tin princess atop it, dressed in her red gown. The fabric was a little faded with age, and much of the original paint that made up the princess's sparkling blue eyes was gone, but it was unmistakably, undeniably, the very same music box Erik had made many years ago. He watched as she carefully, tenderly even, turned the little key at the side of the box to trigger the lilting melody of the music box.

"Now once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess. She had hair that gleamed a fine bronze under the sunlight, and she wore it long and curly down her back. Her lips were the shade of rubies, and her cheeks were filled with a rosy blush like the peach pink of an apple. Her favourite colour was red, and her name was Rose, after the multitude of rose bushes that her father the king had grown all around the castle…"

Erik stood frozen in the passageway, one hand pressed to the wall before him, enraptured by the story that she was telling the ballet rats. It was the exact same story he had told her the day before he had left. As he listened to her soft voice weave the story for the ballet rats, his mind drifted off to a day long past.

"The lovely princess accepted the knight for who he was, despite the fact that he was not as handsome as the foreign prince who had come to ask for the princess's hand. She clasped the knight's hands tightly in her own, and placed her ring onto his finger, a tear running down her beautiful face as she did so, for by rejecting the prince and choosing the knight, she would have to leave the castle and her father forever more.

The knight carefully brushed the tear off her face, and told her not to cry, kissing her gently on her cheek. The two of them left the castle after she bid farewell to her father the king, even though he refused to say much to her, as she had disobeyed his orders and chosen the knight instead of the prince.

They found a home, a delightful little cottage in the woods, covered in ivy and honeysuckle, with a small herb garden in the back, and plenty of space in the cottage for the two of them to live in. It was not much, but the princess was happy, and the knight felt like the luckiest man in the world to have her by his side. And just like that, the two of them lived happily ever after."

Amélie shifted on his lap to look back at him. "Why didn't the king want to accept the knight? The princess loved him!"

Erik smiled, perhaps a little bitterly at her. "It was because he was ugly, my little rose. He was ugly, and he had no kingdom to inherit. Of course, the king would choose the foreign prince, who had locks of gold upon his head, a charming smile, and a large country to rule over. Alas, the knight was not chosen because he was ugly."

"How ugly was he?" She asked curiously.

"As ugly as me." Erik sighed. "Now, story time is over, and you have to get back before Antoinette finishes her practice. I have to speak to her anyway."

Amélie frowned. "You're not ugly!" She patted the ravaged side of his face, which he had come to learn was her way of showing affection, before sliding off his knee and toddling to the door. "Will I see you again tomorrow? Will I have a new story tomorrow?" She asked cheerfully, beaming at him.

He swallowed a lump in his throat, and said with a little difficulty, "Perhaps I will see you tomorrow. Come now, I'll bring you back."He slid his mask onto his face.

Just before they had reached the door that would lead to the corridor where Amélie met Erik each time, she tugged on his hand, and looked up at him.

"You're not ugly, you're my friend." She smiled up at him so innocently that he felt a part of him die inside. "I'll see you tomorrow!"

He stared at her for a long moment. Slowly, awkwardly, he bent down, and gently brushed his lips against her unblemished, rosy cheek, which was flushed with excitement. He briefly tousled her hair, then gently pushed her out of the passageway.

"Goodbye, my little rose." He allowed a brief smile to ghost over his lips, before he closed the door to the secret passageway and fled. He heard her calling from across the wall, asking him for a new and exciting story the next day.

Of course, he had never returned. The next day had been Antoinette's first performance as prima ballerina, and he had left immediately after the performance.

Meanwhile, Amélie had finished the story while he had been deeply mired in his memories, and the ballet rats were clapping rather enthusiastically.

"Who told you this story, Amélie? I loved it!" One of the younger ballet rats chimed. "Oh, if only I had a brave knight like that to come and sweep me off my feet!" She pretended to swoon romantically, and the rest laughed.

"What, you would choose the ugly knight?" Another ballet rat scoffed, tossing her curly dark brown hair over her shoulder. "Why not the handsome prince with all his riches to offer?"

Erik felt the corner of his mouth turn up a little bitterly. Yes, why not choose the handsome prince and let the ugly knight rot in despair in his own hell?

"No! The ugly knight loved the beautiful princess! He was much better than the handsome prince." The first ballet rat countered. "Don't you think so, Amélie? Who told you this story?"

Amélie laughed at the little girls squabbling. "A friend of mine once told me this story, a long, long time ago." She said a little wistfully. "I barely remember him, but I remember his stories, and I remember how each time seemed like a little adventure for me. Those days were the happiest days of my childhood in the opera house."

"Was your friend ugly too like the knight? Why else would he tell you stories about an ugly knight? Most fairytales have handsome princes that live happily ever after with the princess." The ballet rat who had chosen the handsome prince screwed up her face in thought. The other ballet rats immediately shushed her.

"That's rude, Francine! Shh!"

"How could you say that!" One ballet rat whacked the offending ballet rat on the arm, and she responded with a scowl, rubbing her red arm.

Amélie frowned. "My friend wasn't ugly at all. I don't recall what he looks like, but I know he was beautiful."

Francine looked confused. "Well, if you don't remember what he looks like, then how do you know that he's beautiful?"

"When I was lonely, he told me stories and entertained me. He was all alone in this world, and yet he found it in his heart to keep a little girl company. Ugly? I think not! I may not remember what he looks like, Francine, but he was the most beautiful boy I'd ever met." Amélie replaced her music box back into its drawer, stroking it. "Now girls, story time is over, and you all have to get ready for bed."

XXXXX

The next morning, Antoinette crept down to the kitchens with a basket, filling it with a loaf of bread and some cheese. She made her way down the stairs leading to the storeroom, and knocked on the door softly before letting herself in. The sight that she saw made her smile a little.

Erik sat on the floor, slumped against a crate, one arm resting on the surface of a crate and his head on his arm, sleeping, his mouth slightly open. He looked every bit like the boy that Antoinette had rescued, seemingly free of the world's turmoil in his sleep.

And yet, even as she stood there looking at him, Erik begin to shift restlessly in his sleep, mumbling beneath his breath, clenching his fists.

"No, no! Don't make me do it! I'll do anything else, I beg you! Please, no… not that…" He cried in his sleep. "No!"

With a final cry of anguish, he shot up from his slumber, a thin sheen of sweat upon his face, breathing heavily. Antoinette coughed softly to alert him of her presence and he looked up sharply at once, immediately adjusting his mask from its skewed position upon his face.

"How long have you been here?" He asked coldly. Antoinette set her basket down and walked over to him.

"Long enough to know. Do you still have those nightmares, Erik?"

"Always." He said hoarsely. "Always. They've never stopped plaguing me. Only now they are worse, because I can hear the screams of those I've killed, along with my own screams as the gypsies beat me. It never stops, Antoinette. It never stops. In the past, you used to sit with me sometimes while I slept, and it helped chase away a few of the demons, but they always returned the next night anyway."

Erik smoothed his hands over his hair, ever conscious about his appearance. "What brings you down here again, Antoinette?"

"I brought you some food. I thought you might be hungry."

Erik nodded, and reached for the bread and cheese, tearing into it ravenously. "Will you tell me what has happened here over the past ten years, Antoinette? Am I to understand that you are no longer Antoinette Bellamy? Who is the lucky man?"

"He's dead, Erik."

Erik looked stumped by her matter-of-fact statement. When he looked her in the eye, she saw sadness in his green eyes.

"No pity, Erik. I do not want your pity." She stated, parroting his earlier words. "I loved Everard Giry dearly, but fate chose to take him away from me, and I have managed to live." She sat down, and relayed to Erik a brief recounting of what had happened in the opera house in the last ten years.

"At least I still have Marguerite—Meg, my daughter. She is my pride and joy."

"Ah, yes. The little blonde ballerina. She takes after you, her dancing is superb, though it cannot hold a candle to yours."

Antoinette smiled a little, obviously pleased at his compliment. "She will be prima ballerina one day, Erik. I am sure of it."

"She will be." He agreed. "And… what of little Amélie?", he asked a little hesitantly. "Is she… well?"

"Amélie is very well indeed. She has flourished in the opera house, and she is good friends with Meg. I believe that the two of them are the best dancers amongst those of their age in the ballet de corps. Would you like to meet her?" Antoinette raised an eyebrow.

His response was fast and sharp. "No. No, Antoinette."

"Why ever not? She would be pleased to see you again."

"See me?" Erik laughed cruelly. "Why would she want to see me, see this?" He gestured to his mask. "She wouldn't be pleased to see a demon like me."

"She accepted you for who you were, Erik."

"She was a child, too young to know anything, too young to understand that behind the mask hid a true monster. I will not go near her again, Antoinette. I will not risk her childhood dreams crushed when she finds out who the man behind the mask really is."

"Then you're a greater fool than I thought, Erik. I know that Amélie will not care what lies behind the mask, just like I do not care."

"It does not matter. She will not see me again."

A/N: Read/Review/Favourite/Follow/Tell me what you think! (: Did you like it?