I got 1 review! And no one's telling me I'm not doing this crossover right, so I'll just assume you're all happy with this.
Erik'sTrueAngel: Thanks for being my 1 reviewer! Phantom and Frankenstein have so much crossover potential I'm surprised there aren't more of them. I'm sorry to say that Christine won't physically be in this fic, but she's here- sort of. And yes, there will be plenty of drama ahead!
Disclaimer: I do not own POTO or Frankenstein
He watched the violinist enter the cottage. Almost without a sound, he approached the window and knelt, hidden by an adequate amount of bushes and twigs. The snow was still billowing about him, but it wasn't enough to sway the creature- he could endure the cold a while longer.
The man known as Gustave was smiling by a little fireplace, rubbing his hands for warmth. Sitting on a wooden rocking chair was a woman of medium stature, not particularly beautiful. She was nothing compared to his father's Elizabeth or his once beloved French cottagers, but there was something about this woman and her soft golden curls. She was elegant and commonplace with girlish features that made her younger than she seemed. By comparison, the violinist looked like an old man when he seemed no older than thirty summers.
She was alluring. He watched them speak- they were not like the masked man- they were not aware of him. He read their lips. Gustave was bemoaning his lack of a violin. He was talking about the curious masked fellow, the man who shared the creature's eyes. The creature decided it was time to go back to Aana's dear little cabin.
The violinist's lips mouthed the word: "Kristine."
Kristine. So that was his wife's name. It was a good name, fitting and simple. He felt a twinge of resentment as he remembered the swelling of her belly.
Erik cursed the fates. The snow had not let up and if anything, only seemed to fall harder. It would be too difficult to travel given the circumstances and it would be impossible for a horse to go through it all. Turning away from the window, he finished pulling on the black jacket.
Ironically, he missed the robes of Constantinople and Tehran. He had a dreamless night and Erik was grateful for that alone.
No more scorpions crawling over Erik's living corpse.
It had been an unsettling night regardless; someone had been watching him. It was probably a bird or some other poor animal. He put the mask back on his face, relishing in its security before securing it to his head. He checked the lasso in his pocket.
It was a morbid afterthought of his, but old habits tend to die hard. His stomach seemed to be rumbling but he had never been one to care for bodily needs- no, he wouldn't eat until he was sure he was starving.
Before he could make any further plans for the morning, there was a pounding at the door. Irritated, he marched over to the thing and twisted the knob. The door opened with a disturbing creak. The facilities of the inn were most definitely below his standards.
"M. Daae."
Gustave stood before him in the same heavy coat from the night before, holding his hat in his hands, and smiling rather sheepishly upwards.
"Monsieur, I was hoping we could have breakfast together," the man said in looping French.
"And why should I oblige you?"
"The violin-"
Erik prepared to close the door. Gustave's hand shot out and blocked it, revealing a set of small scars over the man's otherwise clean fingers. They captivated the Frenchman.
"How did you come about these?"
"When my first violin broke, the strings snapped. I tried to mend them."
Seeing no encouragement, Gustave continued, a little louder. "I care for my art, Monsieur. I honestly do- the violin is an art not a trade. It is my life, my livelihood."
Erik's eyes loomed over the shorter man. He would regret his next words: "I will join you in a moment, M. Daae."
He shut the door just as Gustave burst out with another request, one even more audacious than the last. "What shall I call you, good sir?"
The Living Corpse, you buffoon! "Erik."
Anna's father had committed suicide over her death. He envied the old man. How many times had he tried to do so for himself? All for nought. The creature sighed, biting into a raw sausage, the bits dripping carelessly over his chin, his teeth gnashing away.
A sound alerted him. He listened intently as the footsteps of other beings crunched in the snow. He stood up and walked over to the dusty door, pausing, and pushing it open. There was a small band of villagers in the distance, half obscured by the woods.
They were laughing. How he hated the sound of happiness.
One of the men was holding up what appeared to be a burlap sack. His eyes narrowed. The sack was a covering of some sort, painted to like a man's stitched face. In the man's other hand was a long black wig. They disappeared into the woods and he slunk back into the cabin.
Feeling the rage coarse, he ripped the knob from the door and threw it on the ground. They meant to mock his visage. Why they needed to was another reason and he did not care to know. Yet.
There was still the issue of his masked companion to deal with.
Gustave shifted awkwardly in his seat, trying to stir up conversation with their guest. Kristine sat beside him, smiling politely and holding a mug of warm milk to her lips.
His luck was unbelievable already- the eccentric foreigner had agreed to join their meal. He even knew the man's name, part of it at least. If he could somehow win the other man's friendship, then perhaps the violin would be obtained at last. Erik sat across from them, poking at a sausage on his plate- the last sausage in their home to be precise.
The masked man had not eaten all morning. It was unsettling and Gustave could sense his wife's discomfort. She had been uneasy enough with his invitation and was more than upset by the mask. He had a burning need to see beneath that mask, but Gustave knew it was best to entertain Erik to the most of his ability. The violin was more important than whatever reason Erik had for hiding his face.
"What brings you to Sweden?" he asked at last. It did not come out in French; he wanted Kristine to understand the conversation as well.
"I was hoping to settle somewhere in the West. I have never been to the Nordic lands."
"You'll be settling here, sir?" Kristine asked suddenly. She coughed in embarrassment at the outburst.
"Preferably not. It's... not to my taste."
"Then where will you go?" Gustave said, watching as Erik tipped the mask up ever so slightly to sip his milk. The cover was down again before he could catch a proper glimpse of flesh.
"Belgium perhaps. Or France- I should like to return home."
Kristine was the only one talking after that point, asking questions about France and the like. Was Erik a well-traveled man? He had been to Persia! Was he a musician? What was his job? Architect, magician, technician! Gustave chuckled at his wife's astonishment, noting with relief that the air of apprehension disappeared about his guest. By the end of the conversation, Erik's sausage had disappeared. Where to, Gustave did not know.
Erik reclined on the chair, waiting with Gustave as his pregnant wife finished cleaning the last of their dishes. She was a wonderful woman and he felt a twinge of envy at the violinist. Such were the pleasures of the human race.
He had not intended to say so much to the couple, but their dispositions were charming enough, if not too forced. He saw no reason to play the rude guest. His eyes trailed back to the violinist's scars.
"M. Daae, I would like to hear you play the instrument."
Gustave's eyes lit up, but the reply was guarded. "With your permission, sir?"
Erik delivered a curt nod in the direction of his instrument case, wrapped in a crude black cloth. He had deemed the Swede worthy of his violin and for that, Daae was grateful.
Gingerly, Gustave approached the case, left on a small round table against the wall, its neighbors a box of matches and a sack of eggs. Still casting fleeting glances at the masked man, Gustave unraveled the case and pried it open. He lifted the violin and soon the fiddle was flying over the worn strings. Erik had underestimated the man.
Music was as much the other man's passion as it was his own. Gustave Daae poured his soul into the fiddle- there was life in his otherwise ordinary tune, a raw emotion that spoke to his audience. Erik had heard much better in his lifetime, but Gustave was by no means horrible. For the first time since arriving in Sweden, he felt a twinge of empathy for another man; Gustave could not wait another day longer- he needed an instrument as soon as time allowed. And looking at the squalid conditions the man lived in, at his little wife, at the isolated town, Erik understood why: the violinist needed the harmony in his life, he needed the harmony to aspire, he needed it to perform.
Gustave was not meant for any other profession.
"You are a natural at your art, M. Daae," he complimented, bringing his hands together in a light clap.
The violinist beamed as he lowered the violin. "Thank you."
His companion had not been at the inn. The man was not in the room but he could see scattered belongings through the curtainless window. The violin case was missing, leaving a heavy clue. Gustave.
He turned and left, once again keeping to the shadows and narrow spaces, out of the sight of men. In spite of his size, he could be as silent as a cat. The violinist's home was not too far. He walked on, hands trembling in resentment.
Before Aana, there had been another friend in this dreary village. These two beings were the only reason he still stayed and suffered. When he first arrived at the start of winter, he had been ready to freeze at last. He was starved and bruised from years of trial, hardened from grief, and on the verge of giving it all up. The answer to his existence, the answer even his father could not provide, was a lost cause.
But he did not die, for he collapsed behind the Daae's cottage. He was no stranger to the sound of a violin, but never had he heard music so pronounced, so emotional, so full of happiness. In the days that followed, he scavenged for food and resisted the urge to die. To hear that instrument was all he desired. All throughout his courtship of the wretched Aana, he would shadow the village in the hopes of finding his savior. He came to the Finn's cabin one night with a group of friends (how the word tore his heart in two!) and played.
That was when he finally saw the face of a man named Gustave Daae. But that same night he had attempted to track down the man, as if he would never learn that there was no acceptance for the likes of him. And Gustave had fled in the woods without even a scream, dropping the violin in his terror. In anger, he had smashed it afterwards.
But now as he peered through the Daae's window, he could feel nothing but resentment for the masked man. The man with his eyes, but who the violinist willingly extended friendship to. The sweet sound traveled past the walls. Even from behind a bush, he could see the way Gustave's eyes shone at the masked man's compliments.
"Will you play?" Gustave's mouth said.
The masked man must have complied for the violin had soon exchanged hands. The resulting tune shook the observer to the core. This was nothing like Gustave's playing. The melody was haunting and crafted, filled with more power and emotion than Gustave could ever hope for. He was shaking.
His ears had never heard anything so beautiful. He blinked back tears.
That was not the cheerful tune which saved him from death. That was the music he had only heard in dreams, only imagined when he pondered the divine. It was as if the masked man had spun a melody out his very life itself.
He was still shaking when the man stopped. He saw Gustave's eyes cloud, he saw Kristine return from the kitchen, weeping freely, and the masked man deliver a theatric bow. More than ever, he yearned to see behind that mask.
Erik left Gustave's home shortly after they exchanged performances, as politely as he could. He did not know much about Swedish etiquette and he was still struggling to remember European manners. The violin was tucked beneath his arm. He did not regret playing the violin far better than Gustave- perhaps that would dissuade the man from pestering him at last. If Daae was a true musician, he would strive and not deter.
If Gustave proved himself worthy, then perhaps Erik would consider selling the instrument. The violin that had accompanied him throughout his adolescence, his solace in the loneliest moments of his life.
He stopped moving. Snow crunched beside him. He turned his head sharply, only to find no assailant. He was greeted with snow.
Briefly, he cursed the villagers for not putting their houses closer together. Their dwellings were scattered from the village center, with more than enough space for a foreigner's comfort.
"Help."
Erik held his breath. It sounded like a child's whisper-
"Please... help..."
The noise was coming from the woods. He was cold, too cold to think straight- without thinking at all, he went to the source. After a few steps past a withering tree, he was nearly blinded by the sight on the snowy ground.
Not since he had left the middle east had he seen it. Red.
Dark red. A fair haired girl lay gasping in the snow, clothes ripped apart and bruised flesh harshly revealed. She was the source of all that blood, the red that traveled from between her legs and from her torso. Eyes fluttering and steam escaping her face, she stretched a trembling, marble hand toward him. Help.
Erik stooped by her and pulled the girl into his arms. Her blood soaked into his cloak and dripped onto the violin case, trailing back into the snow. He should have left her. What good could the angel of death do? And yet all he could remember was a distant vow never to kill again, one spoken to the closest thing he had to a friend on this earth.
He knew she would die but she would not die in his arms. She would not die alone in the snow. He would make sure of it. The girl was hardly a heavy weight as he dashed in the direction of Gustave's cottage.
And there's chapter 2- hope it was worth the read and feel free to review! (Not that I'm expecting any, haha.)
Next chapter, the horror genre shows its face and drama kicks up. And our "companions" meet at last.