A/N: Sorry for not updating for so long; I had to revise a lot of my ideas for this chapter. I hope you guys haven't forgotten about me. ;) I figured out a way to pack the majority of Erik's history into one chapter, instead of extending it into several short, boring ones. There's hardly any dialogue so far, but that will probably change by the next chapter. In case anyone's wondering, my inspiration for the name of the ship, La Margarita, came from the character in Goethe's Faust. When I looked it up, margarita means "daisy," but the name is also a Spanish variant of Margaret, meaning "pearl." Suitable for a ship, no?

Disclaimer: I do not own anything original to Phantom of the Opera. My humble possessions merely consist of the book, film, soundtrack, and Susan Kay's Phantom.

HISTORICAL NOTE: La Margarita is a cog, a multipurpose naval vessel used for both warfare and cargo transport in the Middle Ages. With a relatively large cargo hold, cogs were used extensively for trade, especially between the North Sea and the Baltic Sea (the region that includes Sweden). Since it was mostly used in Northern Europe, the cog was probably uncommon in Spain, contrary to my purposes. However, there was probably an occasional Spanish cog that braved the northern waters, so let us assume that Erik just happened to jump onto one.

The term "ventriloquism" was not coined until the late 1700s. In medieval times, it was looked upon as a form of witchcraft (as was every else unusual and inexplicable in those days).

Lastly, most of the Roma population (gypsies) in the 14th century had just entered Europe through Greece.

III. Nausea

In which a stowaway battles with seasickness

1343 – aboard La Margarita, North Sea, Atlantic Ocean

Being a stowaway was overrated.

Belowdeck, in roomy cargo hold of La Margarita, a green-faced young man was doubled over as the cog's bow pitched forward yet again. In one hand, the man clutched a black leather mask; the other was clamped over his mouth.

Currently, this young man was thinking some very uncomplimentary thoughts about village children who lived many nautical miles away. He remembered how those country bumpkins had fantasized about a secret life at sea, as a clever stowaway who managed to sneak aboard unnoticed. Obviously, their little quixotic minds had not even considered certain privileges a stowaway would be exempt from. For example, in the cargo hold, one would be bunking not with fellow shipmates, but with stout, unfriendly, and often pungent barrels.

Not to mention, thought the young man spitefully, that it is highly unpleasant to be forced to keep down one's own bile. Right on cue, he began gagging convulsively as the back of his throat prickled nastily. The hand over his mouth clamped harder; it would not do to alert the sailors to his presence by a telltale stench from the lower deck.

He allowed himself a little groan as the melodramatic part of him declared, I'm going to die. Not again. This was not the first time he had been on a ship, yet every time he would invariably be attacked by a terrible bout of seasickness. Well, remarked his cynical side, if this is the end, at least I know I have lived a fulfilling life.

I spot a quizzical frown on your countenance, dear Reader. Perhaps I should elucidate this odd train of thought, as disappointingly unromantic as it may turn out. Our charming character is not engaging in deep reflection because he feels his demise is near. Oh, no—the plain truth is that he was half-mad with nausea, and if waxing philosophical on life would distract him from his acrobatic stomach, then he would do so.

--

Let us return to when we last saw our unusual protagonist. Madeleine's little son was smart enough to know that he could no longer live in his Maman's house. He had overheard the village elders suggesting that the cottage be converted into a public shed or refurnished for some new residents. The boy had gone back to the dilapidated house just long enough to gather some of his best "toys" and some scraps of food from the garden and pantry into a canvas bag. Hefting his burden over thin, pale shoulders, he had darted over to the familiar, welcoming shadows of the thicket.

I ask you now, dear Reader, what do you think happened next? Those of my humble audience hoping for a romantic tale of a dashing, muscular Tarzan who sweeps Jane Porter off her feet and into a lush, tropical jungle will be bitterly disappointed. Need I remind you that that our hero is hardly more than a corpse, our Jane not even yet born, and our setting the dismal, barren lands of Northwestern Europe?

I also refuse to paint luscious fruits on the coppice trees where there are none. And everyone knows that a growing boy—especially a skeletal one—needs to eat.

The meager supply in his knapsack could not have lasted forever. Thus, on finding both his bag and belly empty, the boy had had no choice but to return to —ville. Without any money whatsoever, our poor orphan had become the lowest of the low: a beggar.

At some point in life, I believe that everyone realizes the will to live can get very tiresome and inconvenient.

At first, he had actually attempted to earn his keep. After the famine, the village had occasionally encountered traveling minstrels passing by. With such memories in mind, the boy had tried to use his enthralling voice to garner a few precious coins from the pockets of miserly peasants.

Maybe it would have worked, too, if the suspicious country folk had not been so distrustful of his "mask of sin."

Confound the mask! Confound the wicked sorceress of Fate who bestowed the horror behind it! Together, these two evils became a powerful force that grudged their poor possessor sustenance, love, and every other basic human right.

Even beggary had yielded meager results. More often than not, families had slammed the door out of fear upon seeing the mask. If he was lucky, they tossed an edible morsel out of pity—or a desire to get rid of the "fiend" as quickly as possible.

Sometimes people had demanded that he take off the mask. He had always instinctively refused, applying years of Madeleine's teaching. One day, however, hunger had won over reason, and at the promise of food on the aforementioned condition, the child had removed the dark piece of linen.

On that same day, he had fled from his hometown hounded by the gleaming teeth of pitchforks.

When beggary proved a failure, the boy's resourceful mind figured out another option. And thus, the craftiest, nimblest, and most elusive thief in Europe had been born. His notoriety had soon extended throughout all of France. Night watches had been enforced. Nevertheless, harassed watchmen could have offered only a vague description from rare sightings. With a reputation as "La Petite Ombre", therefore, it is no wonder that when a group of bandits had encountered this light-fingered tramp, they had been eager to adopt him into their immoral ranks. By this arrangement, the Little Shadow had been able to exercise his skills beyond the borders of La France.

Our cunning protagonist was not naïve. Still, one must keep in mind that he had been young, with only a few added years of experience since Madeleine's death. Furthermore, his limited experience with people had not done much to raise them in his esteem. So when the rogue had joined the band of thieves as they roamed about the continent, his judgment had been hindered by a novel sense of belonging at their apparent acceptance of his mask, and later, his face.

Does my Reader dare hope that our orphan has found a family among these thieves, one that has accepted him and his deformity out of the goodness of their hearts? No, I see you do not. A wise decision. After the initial horror had passed upon beholding the boy's face, an wicked idea had formed in the devious, calculating mind of the band leader.

The coldhearted felon had consulted his right hand man. "The little rascal we picked up in France may prove to be a valuable asset," the former had said in a cool, measured tone. "He has a hypnotic voice but a repulsive face…a potentially useful combination." Exiting his tent, he had stridden purposefully to the fire in the middle of their temporary camp, where the masked boy sat dejectedly staring into the flames. None of the other thieves had been in sight, unable to confront the grotesque monster in their midst.

The boy had felt a hand on his shoulder and had whirled around in a defensive position, ready to block a blow. When he had found himself face to face with the Leader, he had dropped his raised arms in surprise. The orphan had been further astounded when the Leader had draped an arm over his bony shoulders and leaned towards him conspiratorially. "I've watched you at work," the leader had said in a foreign tongue, "and I see that you've got more skills in those quick fingers of yours than all the other louts put together. How 'bout we put your other specialties to good use?"

Overwhelmed by such special attention, the boy had stared, dumbfounded, as his long digits had been enveloped in the tanned, calloused hands of the Leader. Then, lifting his chin like a prince at a grand coronation, he had proudly answered, using bits of the same language he had picked up from their travels, "What would you like me to do, my lord?"

After that unusual colloquy, the young pickpocket had played a central role in all robberies and village plunders. He had grown arrogant over his new position, noticing with satisfaction the hostile looks he earned from the others when discussing the next "mission" with the Leader. Alas, he had not been aware that the Leader was laughing silently at the gullibility of his pawn.

Yes, his pawn. For all his genius, our pickpocket had been blind to the fact that he was being used, his talents exploited for the benefit of someone who could not care a wit for his personal wellbeing. The boy had confided in his new "friend," sharing his hopes, ideas, and opinions. The Leader soon new all his interests, and even indulged his protégé from time to time, if only for the sake of earning his loyalty. It was from this experienced felon that boy had learned countless magic tricks, foreign languages, and the witchcraft of "throwing one's voice." The protégé had been a quick learner with an insatiable hunger for knowledge, and before long, the pupil had surpassed the master.

Allow me to explain his role in the band's crimes. The thieves would be gathered near the village entrance, unnoticed by the night watch. The Little Shadow, draped by his namesake, would begin to sing, throwing his voice so it was heard by the entire settlement. I have spoken of the alluring quality of that voice. This feature would never fail to draw sleepy villagers from their homes in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the singing angel. Thus distracted, the innocent people would be oblivious to the lithe bodies of burglars slipping into their houses to steal their valuables. If there had ever been any chance that they might be caught, which was often, the boy had been instructed reveal his face.

Every time, as expected, the villagers had been horrified, and with such a diversion, the bandits had made a clean escape.

What of the boy? The Little Shadow had been a master at vanishing and reappearing at will, and so he would have eventually managed to slip away into night and back to the camp. Had he been hurt by the villagers' reaction? Probably yes, though by then he had learned to expect it. Besides, he could not have allowed for such maudlin weakness; the important thing had been that he was of use to his comrades.

There had come a time, even after a few years of this routine, when loopholes appeared in the magician's battered hat. Somehow, our wizard had erred, and the fraud of the disappearing act had been exposed. Caught in the merciless, glaring light of torches, the unmasked Little Shadow had cowered before the surrounding villagers. Golden eyes had squeezed shut as he had waited for the shadows to embrace him, for his comrades to save him. Nothing—and the mob had swallowed him up.

In the end, the horde had left him for dead, tossing the body outside of the village. We must forgive them for the honest mistake; after all, the boy had already resembled a corpse. The only difference was that his pale skin had now been blackened with bruises, his limbs and back carved with bloody scars.

Once he had regained consciousness, the pitiful, wounded creature had dragged himself back to the camp—or where it had once been. Haggard golden eyes had taken in the scene: the smothered ashes of a campfire, scraps of tent canvas stuck to rocks and sticks, and not a soul in sight. It was some time before he had realized that he had been abandoned.

With the realization had come physical and emotional pain. His insides had twinged at the thought of losing his only food supply. His heart had ached from the loss of someone he had foolishly called a friend.

Eventually, he had hardened himself to face life on his own once again. He had stolen as needed, lingering in coastal cities where seafood was plentiful. Sometimes, a random fisherman may have spotted a little shadow darting from the wharf and onto the nearest boat. In this fashion, the rogue had made his way around the Mediterranean, even snatching a black leather mask from a gypsy caravan in Greece. By the age of eighteen, he had reached Spain, effortlessly procuring "free" accommodations for himself on La Margarita—where, at the beginning of this installment, we saw him making a valiant effort not to retch on the wooden floorboards.

--

At last, he no longer felt an urge to spout bile all over the deck. His eventful life was a very engaging topic for the mind. A life of fulfillment indeed! spoke his awakened sarcasm. I'm sure that most men would die happy knowing they have led a life of neglect, crime, and abandonment!

Suddenly, he felt nauseous again. But it was not from seasickness.

--

He heard Captain Marcos Batista review the crew's itinerary with the first mate.

"After passing the Strait of Dover it's been mostly open sea," remarked the captain, "but soon we'll reach our final destination."

"And that will be…?"

The stowaway listened carefully out of curiosity. He knew the cog was traveling farther north than he usually ventured, but he had been getting bored of the Mediterranean. He conjured up the mental picture of a world atlas, guessing on random northern countries before the captain answered,

"Sweden."