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Name: Arianne | Gender: Female | Posts: 18 | Roses: 10
Old 04-01-2012 at 07:11 PM
Wandering Child
Corps de Ballet

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Fallen Angel  Post [1] »

Hello, all. I've always been a writer, and naturally, being a huge fan of PoTO, I wrote a fan fiction. This one I started a few months ago, and I am now planning on finishing. I tried to combine both the book and the movie, with Erik's appearance more alike to the movie, though his attitude more alike to the book, Giry's role more alike to the movie, and the Persian's presence more alike to the book. Confusing, I know: but bear with me, the story itself is hopefully much more interesting than the details!
PS: If you don't know who the Persian is, Wikipedia-it. Or better yet, read the book.
PPS: Lucy is my own character, so don't go trying to find her in any version!
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters (except maybe Lucy). Don't sue me, kill me in my sleep, etc.


It was a dark night. The clouds were as gray as stone and black rain fell upon the city of Paris. But the dread wasn't in the skies, no; it was in the vast place below that the trouble lay. Deep in the twisted catacombs where a lost and lonely soul resided. Those crooked tunnels that he called home.

Erik stared at himself in one of his many mirrors. His black hair fell in knotted clumps over the right side of his face while the lack of it on his left made his deformity stand out even more. The broken man yelled out in range, shattering the glass in front of him. He didn't hear his scream. He didn't hear the shattered pieces crumble to the floor. All Erik heard was the soft tune playing over and over again in his mind.

Masquerade, paper faces on parade! Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you!

"Christine, I love you," he whispered, finishing the song. It had all happened in the space of an instant. He had lost the only one he had ever loved – or would ever love – in the space of an instant. That moment which now seemed an eternity. He had lost.. everything.

Gentle footsteps broke his thought. Erik quickly spun around, but he already knew who it was.. her. Christine, his lost love, his beautiful angel of music. Even now, after she had rejected him horribly, after he had given so much up for her, done so much for her, after she had chosen him.. he couldn't look away. He couldn't help but imagine what could of happened – what kind of life they could have had – if he had ever had a chance. But he never did, since the beginning. He never did...

He never had a chance...

And now, as his Christine walked away, back towards the man that she truly loved, Erik could feel the ring in his hand. A beautiful ring. It should have been hers. It should have been him that gave it to her.. asking her to marry him. But it never happened.

Erik looked back in the mirror. The broken shards that were left reflected bits and pieces of his figure... They reflected the broken bits and pieces of his soul. Well, it was broken to begin with, but now it had shattered even more. Christine had shattered it. No, rather, he had shattered himself. He couldn't bring himself to believe that such a divine beauty as her could reduce him to sheer nothing as he felt now. Him, Erik, a genius of the Opera, reduced to nothing...

What was he?

What was Erik?

Was there an Erik?

Was there a Phantom of the Opera?

He paused.


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Name: Arianne | Gender: Female | Posts: 18 | Roses: 10
Old 04-01-2012 at 07:17 PM
Wandering Child
Corps de Ballet

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Fallen Angel  Post [2] »

Chapter 1

Erik sat at the table, one hand clutching his deformed face. He'd been such a fool to leave his mask down in the catacombs... Giry's blasted ballet daughter had taken it. Damn her.. damn them all. He really needed his mask right now. But he'd have to make a whole new one before he ever dared show himself in public again. Which meant having to make his own food... He hated having to make his own food.

He was in the English countryside, a seemingly ideal getaway place from the world of France. He wanted to start over, try something new. Yes, Erik the great Opera Ghost was going to be nice for a change. Nice to people. Friendly. Of course, it was Giry that had talked him into it.. He didn't hold anything against her, she'd helped him survive in the catacombs ever since she introduced them to him. But the batty old lady held some far-fetched notion in her head that maybe Erik could start again, that maybe he'd find someone else...

Ha. As if that were ever going to happen.

Still, he'd given it quite a bit of thought. Christine had been nice to people, hadn't she? And look where that had gotten her: a loving husband, a home, high status, a heap of best friends, the list was endless... Erik wanted that, too. He'd hoped he could have started some sort of a dysfunctional family with his beloved, but obviously he was wrong. Perhaps someday someone could come close to him that loved him, too. Or if not that, a close friend or too.

Erik shook his head. Giry and the Daroga were his only friends. They had always been his only friends; they and they alone knew what Erik truly was, and accepted him for it.

A knock at the door reminded him of where he was. The small rotting house square in the middle of the York forest was perfect for him: solitude. He wanted solitude and for people to leave him alone. The knock was Giry: she'd been helping him settle down, brought over a bunch of the things the authorities hadn't confiscated from his beloved catacombs. He sighed, standing up. In truth, there weren't that many things. Most of the things he had previous called 'his' were in a way related to Christine: a drawing; a sculpture, a dress. All for her. All for her...


Antoinette Giry stood shivering outside the small wood house. Brown and gray hair fell in her face as she knocked a second time on the door. Giry was Erik's only true friend besides Nadir, having rescued the boy as a child from a traveling circus and helped him escape to the catacombs of the Opera House. Throughout the years she had done odd jobs for him here and there, as well as collected his salary every month from the managers.

The woman knocked a third time. Normally she would have just gone in, but the door was locked. She hadn't expected this: after all, there hadn't been a lock when they'd found the place. But, naturally, Erik, being the genius he was, put some sort of a lock on it. He wouldn't sleep without one there.

"Erik! Open the door, it's freezing!", the woman yelled impatiently in an accented English. Earlier that day she had vowed to speak only that language with him, and not French, so he could practice it, if he ever had any hope of getting to know the locals. (If locals meant anyone within a fifty-mile radius) But she supposed the small effort to help him was fruitless. He knew English much better than she did, as well as Italian, Russian, German, Spanish, and God knows what else...

The door cracked open a peek as Erik briefly confirmed the identity of his visitor, and fully opening the door. Giry took a couple of steps inside but felt no warmth from this house.

She glanced over at Erik, who had returned to his position at the lone chair, staring out at the window. Sighing, she pushed the door closed. "What, now, Giry?" she heard.

"Erik –"

"What now? Am I going to be stuck out here for the rest of my damn life and you and Nadir as my only occasional company?"

Erik glared daggers at the woman as she did her best to find a comfortable seat on the floor, not responding. He resumed his staring out the window. "And tell your blasted daughter to give back my mask."

Giry spun around. "You will NOT talk of my daughter in that way, Erik! You –"

"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I CAN'T AND CAN DO, GIRY!", he screeched. She fell in silence again.

Antoinette knew Erik was going through a tough time, but this was the last straw. He would not talk to her, or about her dear daughter Meg, in that tone. She felt like a mother scolding a son about something drastically horrifying.

"Suit yourself", she said, her voice calm, but her hands clenching her scarf in a brief rage. "Enjoy living alone."

And with that, she left.

Erik didn't expect such an outburst from Giry. As he thought again, he was rather harsh to her. But it was no excuse to pull a tantrum like a silly ballet girl. He rolled his eyes and slipped back into the realm of his thoughts again.

Most of his daydreams were about Christine. Her beautiful brunette locks, her angelic brown eyes, her picturesque complexion... He needed something to distract himself of her. But as the man looked around, everything seemed to remind him of his brown-eyed beauty. The trees swaying in the wind and their beautiful green leaves looked like long locks of hair. The boards of wood in the house were the same color as her eyes...

Erik balled his fists up. No, he wouldn't give in to her. He need to find something to do, and there was much work to be done to the house. It was falling apart. It was a mess, a disaster.

Couldn't Giry have found something better for him?
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Name: Arianne | Gender: Female | Posts: 18 | Roses: 10
Old 04-01-2012 at 07:22 PM
Wandering Child
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Fallen Angel  Post [3] »

Chapter 2

Erik sat on the front steps to his humble abode. Well, it wasn't really humble now that he had given it a home makeover. It was really a shame that he hadn't anyone to share it with but Nadir: Giry had only visited him once since their argument, and his home wasn't fully finished then.

It had only been a month, but it seemed like much longer. At the beginning, the fresh air and bright light stung his throat and eyes, and he longed for the eternal silence and darkness of his catacombs. Slowly he learned to adjust to his new life; slowly but surely. He even had a beautiful piano in the upstairs.

Erik couldn't have been unhappier.

He was a great composer, not a poor farmer! He belonged back in his opera house, not stranded in the forest like this! But both Nadir and Giry had practically banned him from Paris, or France, for that matter... Although, what trouble could Erik cause in France that he couldn't cause in England?

He came back to reality as the distant sound of approaching horse hooves against the dirt of the forest floor. The figure of a man on a brown stallion appeared to view. They slowed as they approached Erik and his home.

It was Nadir; otherwise known as the Daroga. He was a Persian man; of rather tall structure, and a dark complexion. He had thinning black hair and a small beard, not quite as black as Erik's, but black all the same. Despite the cold temperature within the forest, Nadir wore thin clothing, as well as his signature headpiece: a small crimson red fez nestled comfortably upon his head.

Nadir had helped Erik as a child while in Persia. They had a brief history together there, one that wouldn't particularly like to be told, but he quickly learned and appreciated the man. It wasn't until much later, however, when the two re-met in Paris, that they truly called themselves friends.

The Daroga spotted Erik seated on the porch, and slowed, jumping off his mount and raising his hand in greeting. His companion did not respond, preferring to stare off into the distance, much like what he had done with Giry. But instead of an enraged appearance, today it was sadder. Sadder and very lonely.

"Erik is lonely. Erik doesn't know what to do without his Angel", he whispered in French.

Nadir walked over quietly, sitting down on the porch alongside his friend. "Erik must forget Christine. It is time to start over", he said while slowly placing his hand on Erik's.

The Parisian turned his head slowly to face his friend. For a while the two of them stared at each other without talking. What they were sharing was much greater than words: it was loneliness. Finally Erik sighed, dropping his head down towards the wooden beams below him. "Perhaps the Daroga is right. Perhaps –"

He was interrupted by a small noise coming from deep within the forest. The Daroga lifted his head: he'd heard it too. Slowly it got louder and louder, until finally it could be recognized. It was the noise of a crowd: feet stomping, loud yells and chatter.

Erik sprung up, horrified. "The mob! They've come for me! They've come for me, Daroga!" His eyes narrowed . "Erik will not go down without a fight! He will not! I refuse!"

Nadir breathed out loudly and jumped to his feet as well, stepping quickly in front of his friend. "Don't you dare! Not this time! Get inside!"

Erik raised his hand up in defiance. "You try to tell me what to do? I won't let you fight for me! This is one battle I-" He was again interrupted as the cheers suddenly got louder. The men exchanged glances and dashed inside the house.

Erik leading the way, the two of them raced upstairs and locked themselves in the bathroom, the only room with a clear view of the dirt path in front of the house. They waited silently, Erik's hand at his pocket, where his precious punjab lasso used to reside, and Daroga's on the blade in pocket, which was thankfully still there.

The crowd now surrounding the house was wild. They were all English, men and women alike, but to both the men's great surprise, they weren't shouting 'Erik', 'the ghost', 'murderer', or anything of the sort. No, they were shouting something entirely different. Nadir's eyes widened as he loosened his grip on his weapon.

"Witch! Witch! Throw her in the haunted house where she belongs!"

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Name: Arianne | Gender: Female | Posts: 18 | Roses: 10
Old 04-01-2012 at 07:28 PM
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Fallen Angel  Post [4] »

Chapter 3

"Witch! Witch! Throw her in the haunted house where she belongs!"

Witch..?, thought Erik, puzzled. The English still believed in those silly stories? He frowned, feeling disappointed. He had hoped something more interesting could have occurred.

Both men heard it: the unmistakable sound of the door opening. Blast, I forgot to lock the door in our rush! he thought miserably, stiffening. A couple of torturing moments of silence before a loud bang erupted, and the door shut again.

As the crowd began to disperse outside, the stench of a rotting corpse filled the room. Well, besides the rotting stench Erik already emitted. The Daroga held his nose. "Did they honestly just dump a dead woman in here?", he asked with a touch of disgust. The two waited until the entire mob had left before making their way downstairs to the large kitchen area that opened to the front door.

A woman lay sprawled on the floor, immobile. It couldn't be told whether she was dead or alive. If she were alive, then it would be only by a strand – fresh blood pooled onto the floor from the many cuts on her body. The miserable smell that the body released was because of the many open burns on her body...

"Oh, God", Nadir whispered, bending down towards the woman. He gently lifted up her face. Her face was perfect compared to the rest of her. The townspeople apparently didn't bother scarring it. It was the face of a child: sweet, innocent, and pure. She couldn't have been more than nineteen.

Erik bent down beside the Daroga. Not even him could turn away at the sight of the girl. He felt a deep pain inside. Her outer physical distress reflected his inner emotional distress, and that linked them together. Emotional distress.. he began to think about how the girl resembled Christine...

A sudden motion caught him off guard. A slight breath. "She's alive!" he exclaimed, both surprised and horrified at the same time. Nadir frowned. "No, she–" he retorted, until he, too, heard the girl take a small breath.

"GET her to the BED! And QUICKLY!" he yelled, delicately holding her upper torso, as if she were a porcelain doll ready to crumble at a moment's notice. Erik grabbed her legs with much less finesse. She was human, after all, and if she had somehow survive what the townspeople had did, she would surely survive being moved through the house.

Once upstairs and in the master bedroom, the Daroga took her by himself and placed her under the covers. The Parisian slipped out to get medical supplies, all the while thinking. How long would the girl take to heal, if she did make it? Who was she? He didn't want strangers in his house.

Who was she?


The next day, Erik awoke in the smaller bed, and with a terrible backache. The smaller bed could not be slept on again, he decided, not even the girl if she were to stay.

He didn't quite remember what had happened after she'd been put in the bed, his mind had been yet again clouded with thoughts of Christine. The Daroga had left, of that he was certain. He sighed.

Erik walked across the wall and leaned on the door of the master bedroom, staring in at the woman inside. Yes, he confirmed, she looked about nineteen. He and Nadir had bandaged her wounds the previous night; however she still looked awfully sickly.

She slept quietly with the occasional loud intake of air. She appeared to be in a great deal of pain: her fists were clenched and her brow crinkled in a deep frown. Every once in a while the girl shook her head, her legs jerked, her arms twitched: as if she were in an inescapable nightmare, as if she caught in a sticky web of agony and lies, unable to break free. She had an almost surreal look to her, like she was not supposed to be there, like she was from another time.

Her face was quite unnaturally pale, and Erik didn't think it was from her injuries. She had a fragile physique, very thin, and without exaggeration could have been mistaken for thick sheets if not for her tiny face. The only thing that seemed to give her any color was her hair. The girl's hair was a bright red, not an orange, but a fiery red that burned like a flame. It completely contradicted the rest of her.

Erik blinked as she began to stir, her eyelashes fluttering. He hastily sneaked away into another room as he changed into something more suitable than his nightclothes. When he returned, he found her trying to sit up. She hadn't noticed him. But one thing that Erik noticed was her bright green eyes. Green as emeralds, jewels within her eyes.

Already, she was starting to aggravate him. Who would be so blind as to not see him standing there? He balled up his fists, but frowned.

What would the Daroga do? Nadir was friendly.. yes, he was very friendly...

He coughed. "Miss, do you need any –" She jerked up her head and let out a high-pitched scream. Erik instinctively looked behind him, and found nothing out of the ordinary, but when he looked back she was still screaming frantically, pointing at him and waving her arms around.

"DO NOT CUM DEER ME!", she shrieked in an English that could have used a lot of work. She obviously didn't understand much of it.

Erik raised his arms protectively and took a small step towards her. He cleared his throat and spoke again in French: "Goodness, calm down! They're gone, I can assure you, they're gone, no one's going to hurt you!"

She stopped screaming like an imbecile, and breathed heavily in and out. "They're gone?", she whispered. He nodded. "Oh, thank you, Monsieur, thank you.. thank you..."
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Old 04-02-2012 at 12:00 AM
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Corps de Ballet

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Fallen Angel  Post [5] »

Chapter 4

Erik sat at his kitchen table, his mind trying to comprehend the attitude of his guest, his thoughts reeling.

He'd managed to pull some facts from the mysterious girl, by means of brief interrogation, before she suddenly fell – ker-plonk! – back to sleep on his bed. No, he didn't like this, he didn't like it one bit. It'd been about three days since he'd last talked to her: he suspected she'd woken up a few times, from the noises, but she'd never left the room.

He organized the few things he knew about her in his head. Firstly, she had bright red hair, bright green eyes, but the rest of her was quite pale. Secondly, she was perhaps fatally injured. She'd given him a name: Lucy Chapelle. He suspected she was lying: Chapelle was a French surname, yet Lucy was an English first name. Unless, of course, it was short form for Lucile or Lucille. She didn't remember where specifically she came from, though she knew it was France. She'd appeared, out of the blue, in the forest around the nearest town. The locals were scared off by her hair and eyes, and her lack of knowledge of the English language hadn't exactly helped. Lucy had been taken in by an old innkeeper who spoke some French. Then things started disappearing, expensive watches, cows, bags of money. The people's odd logic was that it had something to do with her. After that, there had been a warrant for her arrest, the friendly innkeeper had hid her away, until a wedding present from his late wife disappeared, and he'd turned against her, thrust her into the streets. And the angry mob had taken over from there.

Erik shook his head, running his hands through his hair. The story was too short, too odd, he didn't buy it. No matter: he stared up at the watch, four o'clock. Nadir should be there soon.

And there he was, his horse galloping on the forest floor. He gazed out the window: a pure black ride. Must be new, he thought, but he decided to not ask the Daroga. Stay out of his business.

The Persian opened the door, spotted Erik, and sat down at the table with him. They stared at each other for awhile. "You know what I think," Nadir said, not as a question, but a statement. Erik nevertheless nodded at him to continue. "I think the girl looks like our friend Raoul de Chagny."

Erik hissed. "Do not speak that insolent creature's name around me! He took Christine away! He ruined our love!" With your help, he wanted to add, but refrained from doing so. He made a wild hand gesture, but soon settled back into the chair. His mind wandered to Christine again, despite himself. Why did he have to bring that touchy subject up? He'd been doing well not thinking of what happened at the Opera house. But really, there had been no connection between him and Christine. It had been a one-sided love, the other side tricked by the Opera ghost's lies.

"– And no, she does not look like him," Erik spat back at the Daroga. "Not one bit."

The other man shrugged, leaning back. "Have you been taking care of her?"

"Of course. I'm not that cold hearted. She does aggravate me, though."

The Persian frowned. "Aggravate you? How could the girl aggravate you, she's stranded on the bed, her death bed, quite literally…"

"'The girl' has a name!" Erik yelled, suddenly defending his acquaintance.

Nadir raised an eyebrow and a smirk appeared on his face. "Ah, so you have taken some interest to her."

"I suppose." Erik glanced aside, before his expression turned to surprise and he turned back to his friend. "Wait, did you just –" Nadir's smirk turned into a smile. "How dare you! Erik's only interest will be Christine! Ever! No other loves! How dare you!" In a fit of anger, the man stood up, lifted his chair from the ground, and threw it to the other side of the room, though not hard enough to damage it. The Daroga recoiled and scooted his chair back away from the madman. "Do you know why, Daroga? Do you?! No one can love Erik! Erik is an evil genius! Erik is a disgusting demon from Hell!"

Erik leaned over the table and paused, taking deep breaths. "I am sick, Daroga," he said with a touch of emotion. "Not ill, I am sick. Mentally. There is something wrong with me, I must be the master, I must be in control, I need to cause pain to others so I won't feel alone in my own pain." He took his face in his hands. "Why, Daroga, why? Isn't my face bad enough?"

His friend, not sure what else to do, gently patted his head. This simple motion, this basic act of kindness touched Erik, and he looked up, a bit shocked, and stepped back. His logical mind struggled to find an explanation for Nadir's act. Finally, he found the word for it: kindess.

And for the first time, he felt a sense of what kindness really was.

Erik shrugged off the past events and started to the stairs. "Come, let me introduce to you to my guest. I believe she's awake; I hear a voice from the bedroom. She's less pale, but still very much so."
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Name: Arianne | Gender: Female | Posts: 18 | Roses: 10
Old 04-02-2012 at 03:38 AM
Wandering Child
Corps de Ballet

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Fallen Angel  Post [6] »

Chapter 5

Lucy sat up, rubbing her head. Another headache, maybe a migraine. She winced. She wondered how much longer she would get these.

That man, Monsieur, as she referred to him, hadn't come to see her in hours. Or maybe days, she didn't know. Her stomach was empty and she felt so terribly ill, she could have thrown up – if she had anything to throw up. There was a jug of water and a glass at the bed table, and she leaned over, drinking some eagerly. She assumed that Monsieur filled it up when she was sleeping, since she'd already emptied it the last time she'd been awake. He'd also left various food items: crackers, cheese, meat. But Lucy felt too sick to eat right then.

Who was she, really? She remembered bits and pieces of her past life – if that was what you would call it –*and she didn't like any of them. One was her and a man leaning over a coffin. Several women were also weeping and crying, but she didn't look at any of their faces. Instead, Lucy looked at the man beside her, who was holding her closely to him, tears streaming down his eyes. She recognized his face, which led her to believe he was a good friend of hers, a family member perhaps.

Her father?

She shook her head. He was too young. She had a bad feeling when she thought of who her parents might be. A bad feeling…

A male voice echoed into the room from the hall – Monsieur's – but, wait, another, – one she didn't recognize – and she started to squirm, panicking. Lucy told herself to calm down, that Monsieur wouldn't bring any of the townspeople here, he wouldn't do that…

Would he?

She relaxed slightly when the voices became clearer and.. French. None of the townspeople spoke as fluently as the unknown man did that was, apparently, Monsieur's friend. Yet, still, her stomach did a somersault and her throat tied into a knot, her insides butterflies. Please, oh Lord, please…

The door handle turned.

And a dark-skinned man entered.

Her panic fully left her and she forced a smile at the stranger. Her eyes flickered to Monsieur, who came through the door, behind them.

"Lucy," Monsieur said. "Eat. You need it. You're very weak." As if she didn't know. He pointed to the food on the bed table. As if she didn't see it. She was beginning to wonder how stupid he thought she was.

You ungrateful girl, he's just trying to help you. Banish such selfish thoughts!

A voice ringed in her head, a voice she knew. She knew it… A woman's voice, an older woman. Scolding her. Threatening her. She cringed mentally, not wanting to show her weakness to the strange dark-skinned man and Monsieur. She trusted Monsieur, but not enough to show enough more weakness than she already had. Being fatally injured was pretty weakening, after all. And he still was, technically, a stranger. She didn't even know his name. The only time they'd talked, she'd told him her story, but she'd fallen asleep but he could tell her his.

Monsieur nodded towards his friend. "This is .. the Daroga," he said, pausing. His name is 'the Daroga'! she thought incredulously. It must not be. It must not. Maybe it was a nickname. Maybe they didn't trust her with their names yet, even though she'd trusted them with hers. Well, then again, she'd trusted them with her life, so a name didn't particularly seem impressive.

The Daroga knelt beside her at the bed. Lucy struggled to raise her hand so he could shake it. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he spoke, in perfect French like she'd heard in the hallway. "You're a brave young lady, dealing with all this pain. You're getting better, you look a lot better." He smiled encouragingly. Lucy grinned back. He was a lot kinder and more supportive than Monsieur was.

Speaking of Monsieur, he cleared his throat and shifted his position. "Yes, you're getting better," he stated, his eyes going to Daroga, who looked at him with an expression similar to: You are so bloody stupid. She could have laughed out loud, but resorting to grinning. It was less painful.

Monsieur cast an odd glance at her before continuing. "I suppose I haven't introduced myself yet. Erik. You may call me Monsieur .. Erik." The Daroga made that you're so stupid face at Monsieur again, and this time, Lucy couldn't help but laughing. The Daroga grinned at her, clearly happy that he had amused her.

Her stomach did a jump, pained from the laughter. She puffed up her cheeks like a chipmunk and her head twitched. Monsieur Erik got the message and brought over a wastebasket, which she proceeded to throw up into. I guess I still had something left in my stomach after all, she thought, her head arched over the basket. Both men looked the other way.

When she was through, Monsieur put the wastebasket down on the ground. She stared at him, slightly nervous for fear of his reaction, and asked a question she'd been meaning to ask for awhile.

"Monsieur, I know it's none of my business, and I don't mean to intrude, but why do you keep a cloth over half of your face?"

He was obviously greatly disturbed by this. Only then did she realize it was probably hiding some sort of a deformity. "I'm very sorry – I didn't mean to.." He shook his head, fists clenched. The man glanced at the Daroga before angrily stomping out of the room.

Lucy blinked. She hadn't really expected that but, oh well. The Daroga was still here. "Honestly, Monsieur Daroga, I didn't mean any harm, I –"

He held up his hand, silencing her. "Don't bother yourself about it. The man is overly sensitive." He sighed. "You didn't know, you were just curious…"
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Name: Arianne | Gender: Female | Posts: 18 | Roses: 10
Old 04-02-2012 at 04:55 AM
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Fallen Angel  Post [7] »

Chapter 6: Under construction

Erik sat at the table in the kitchen, staring out the window at the autumn leaves as he had so many times before.

The days had passed. Lucy progressively got stronger. Eventually, she was able to get up and walk around, with the help of a small wooden cane Erik had crafted. She often feel asleep to the sound of the Daroga's voice, telling her exotic tales of him and Erik in Persia. Tales of elephants, of jewels and spices, of dangerous creatures and handsome princes who saved their princesses in despair. Lucy was so enthralled with these stories that, when he'd run out, she'd insisted he made up more. Her and the Daroga became very close friends. But with her and Erik…That was another matter.

Erik had become quite attached to her, despite himself. She was a welcomed female presence in his life where there had been none. Not a romantic presence, of course, he thought, recalling the outburst he'd had with Nadir, but a welcomed presence. He'd tried to stay clear of her, feeling like he was betraying his dear Christine by befriending the girl. Though, every day, those feelings of betrayal were fading away… And he came closer and closer…

First of all, he'd made that handy little cane. She'd been overjoyed at that. She could get up, walk around. Who wouldn't be excited? She'd been bedfast for several weeks. Secondly, he'd brought her books. Oh, the thrill. Books, books, books. That had been a partial blow to the Daroga, because as his made-up stories of Persia got duller and duller, she turned to Erik's books for more, slightly ignoring him. Peter Pan, Treasure Island, Gulliver's Travels. All the English classics, translated into French.

He sighed. Maybe it was because of her injuries that he wanted to associate with her. He felt connected to her, felt the need to protect her. It was a survival instinct, to protect the women. At least, he hoped so. He didn't feel the need to protect Giry, perhaps because she was older. He chuckled at this thought. Speaking of which, she hadn't visited since Lucy arrived. He wondered if she'd forgotten about him.

Erik knew, in the back of his mind, that he wasn't really interested in the well-being of the girl. It was just a distraction that helped him forget about his face.


Lucy stared at the sky, on her lap a copy of The Wind in the Willows. She closed her eyes.

She was sitting in a cluster of trees behind the house, close enough that she could walk without much hassle. She'd made a little pathway, with help from the Daroga. He'd been coming to see them less and less often…She should really start paying attention to him more, but these books! They were so captivating, just as his first few stories of Persia were.

Actually, it wasn't just that. She… She felt as if she already knew these novels. She guessed the endings, guessed secrets about the characters: and each time, she'd be right. Yes, she'd definitely read them before. And every page she turned, every chapter she crossed, her past came back to her, inch by inch.

First of all, the man she'd seen crying over the coffin was, as she remembered, her cousin. His name started with an R… Richard? Robert? They'd been close, almost brother and sister. No, wait: they'd lived together. She pushed her red hair behind her ears and thought again.

Suddenly something odd happened. Something strange. Something that no one could have ever guessed. Because, when she pulled her hair, apparently for the first time since she awoke, it didn't remain on her head.

It fell off.

A wig.

Lucy blinked, staring at the red locks that had fallen to the forest floor. Her hand instinctively went back to her head, making sure she did in fact have real hair. She had thick, black hair. Thick, straight, black hair instead of light, curly, red.

What a change.
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Name: Rebecca | Gender: female | Posts: 54 | Roses: 10
Old 04-06-2012 at 02:34 AM
Ramin+Sierra 4ever
Wandering Child
The nerd of the Opera :)

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 Post [8] »

LOVE IT!!! BRAVA!!!! You end chapters so beautifully and keep the reader enticed! Brava!!!

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Name: Arianne | Gender: Female | Posts: 18 | Roses: 10
Old 04-11-2012 at 12:20 PM
Wandering Child
Corps de Ballet

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Oh, haha, chapter 6 isn't done yet. But thanks so much! I've been working really hard on it.
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Name: Artemis Young | Gender: Female | Age: 31 | Posts: 35 | Roses: 10
Old 04-11-2012 at 04:50 PM
Wandering Child
Opera Performer

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 Post [10] »

WOW! I love it!

"I may be British, but you should NEVER underestimate me because I am WAY better than La Carlotta ever will be, plus Christine Daae is my hero & she is the greatest woman to ever grace the stage!"- Alexandria Barrett
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