Phantom's Little Girl: Tales of the Only Daughter

By Serena

A/N: Don't ask me why this came to me, because I have no idea whatsoever. I've always liked the idea of Erik having a girl, and her being the only one to wear a mask out of her other siblings. For now, it's a oneshot, but if you'd like, I'll make it longer.

Disclaimer: If I owned Phantom... let's just say that Raoul would be sporting a loverly bald head at this point. ;D

Three older brothers with perfect faces and mesmerizing voices. Of course, I had to be the one who can't carry a tune and wears a mask. It bloody rots being me.

Mother told me the whole story a few years back: she met Father, more or less, and then they fell in love (though, that's not quite how she explained it), and eventually, they married (although I'm leaving out one or two minuscule details). After that, they moved to England.

Overall, a normal life, right?

Wrong.

Father wouldn't touch the subject, so I had to go to Mother for help. How did she meet Father? How did they fall in love? Eventually I got her to talk, and after she did, well…

Honestly, considering my father, I wasn't all that surprised.

Mother had her firstborn, Charles, about a year after she got married. Like my mother, he has her gentle nature; and he rarely shouts or gets upset. Then came the… other two. Help us all. Gabriel and Edmund, though about a year apart, are the worst two human beings I have ever had the… displeasure of knowing. Tempers that rival my father's, but they can be as sweet as my mother. All three of them are exceedingly handsome, too. Windswept dark brown hair, my father's sea-green eyes (although Edmund inherited my mother's doe-brown eyes). They've dazzled people everywhere they've gone. Unfortunately, not many people know the true nature of my two younger brothers.

I am positive that their main goal in life is to torment me. Endless teasing, baiting, goading… you name it. Reminds me of the infamous "headless chicken" incident.

I was about five, and Gabriel was nine, and Edmund was eight. Charles was eleven and altogether very mature for his age. Most of the time. Anyway, our house is situated nicely in the countryside, full of acres and acres of lush landscape. We border several farms, and one day, I was with the Distressing Duo on my way home from one of our neighbor's homes.

What I didn't know was that it was time for some of the chickens to be eaten, and as we passed a barn, a headless chicken darted across my path. I screamed and dropped the basket I was holding, and dashed behind Gabriel's back.

My idiotic brothers started laughing. I asked them what was so funny, and they exchanged mischievous glances. But I was too young at the time to decipher that glance.

"Did you see that chicken, Angie?" Gabriel asked slyly.

I nodded, trembling.

"That," said Gabriel matter-of-factly, "was the Headless Hen. Have you heard of it?"

When I shook my head in the negative, Edmund put in, "Ah, yes, the Headless Hen. It comes out sometimes looking for little girls to snatch in its claws and feathers and drags them away, never to be seen again. That was the sign, Angie, it's coming for you!"

I whimpered. "I don't want it to!"

"Well, there's nothing you can do about it now," Gabriel said, shrugging.

Consumed with fear, I ran home crying and burst through the back door as my mother was cooking something in the kitchen. "Don't let the chicken take me! Don't let it take me!" I screamed, latching onto my mother frantically. My father came rushing down from his study, demanding to know what in the bloody Persian Empire was going on. "Don't let the chicken take me away!" I wailed, burying myself in my father's chest.

Of course, my parents were completely bewildered at my ramblings. That is, until my father saw my brothers sneaking in through the front door. His eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Boys," he said in a deadly calm voice, one that even scared me (though more so if I was on the subject of that tone), "Get in here, please."

Needless to say, it took me a full week of sleeping in my parents' bed to get over that traumatizing incident.

I still swear, though, chickens are out to get me.

Then, a few years later came the violin scenario. My father had all started to teach us piano, voice, and violin, and unfortunately, I was terrible at all of them. Unlike my dear brothers of course, who had the voices of angels and played with the skill of bloody Mozart.

My father's prized violin rested against the wall, not to be touched. But he played it so often that he always kept it out. He'd play and sing with Mother in the evenings with all of us (well, I'd try and fail miserably to sing).

One morning, I was staring longingly at my father's violin, wishing to death that I could play it as well as my father and brothers. I didn't see Gabriel sneak up behind me, grinning deviously.

"Like it?"

I squealed and whirled around. "Don't do that, Gabriel!" I snapped.

"Looking at Father's violin, hm?" he said.

"No," I lied.

Gabriel meandered up to it. "It is nice, isn't it?"

"Gabriel, don't go near it! Father will kill you!"

"Don't worry, Angie," he said. "I won't do anything to it."

Then, of course, Edmund came in. "Gabe, what are you doing with Father's violin?" he demanded.

"Nothing! Just looking at it." Gabriel picked it up. Of course, Ed had to touch it, too.

Horrified, I exclaimed, "Put it back!"

"Angie, don't be such a worrywart," Gabriel scoffed. "Nothing is going to happen to - "

Then, something happened that to this day I still remember. It slipped out of his hands as Ed tried to grab it from him and crashed to the floor. Two of the strings broke. The noise echoed hollowly in the large sitting room. We all froze.

We all stared at the injured violin in terror. We were dead.

"What did you do?" I stammered.

"Nothing," Gabriel said, and dashed out of the room. With a cry of "wait for me!" Edmund followed hot on his heels. I heard them run to the basement, terrified of what father would do.

But I didn't move. Maybe… maybe there was something I could do. Crouching down, I picked up the violin, admiring its smooth texture, and sat on the divan. Delicately picking up one of the strings, I tried to reattach it to its counterpart. When I'd successfully knotted it back with its missing strand, I started on the next string. Father should still be able to play it like this.

Then, my father entered the room. Uh-oh. His face was absolutely furious. Even the masked side looked angry. "What happened?" he asked edgily.

I swallowed as my irritating brothers slipped into the room. "We told you, Father," they chorused.

Wait… what?

"Angeline Marguerite Destler," Father said, his voice raising slightly, "did you touch and drop my violin?"

What?

"No, Father," I squeaked.

"Then what are you doing with it now?" he demanded coldly, rising to his full impressive height.

Not good.

"I… I didn't do anything to it," I said as tears started to fill my eyes. I hated crying – the hot tears dripped onto the scarred portion of my face – which was only slightly above my eyebrows going down to my cheekbones and over the bridge of my nose– and scalded the tender skin there. This meant I'd have to pull off my mask, something I didn't like. Around the house, I wouldn't wear my mask all the time, but because Father wore his, I decided to wear mine.

At least my brothers didn't tease me about that. In fact, one of the neighbor's children had tried, but the protective side of my brothers came out – strangely enough, Gabriel's – and the boy never came near us again. That was the one time I was glad for Gabriel's hot temper, something he definitely inherited from Father.

But I digress. Father looked at me, the violin, and then to the boys. That light came into his eyes – eyes exactly like mine – and he frowned. He never liked to see me cry, no matter the situation.

"Then what," Father said, "are you doing with it now?" He glanced down pointedly to the violin gripped tightly in my hands.

"Trying to fix it," I mumbled in a small voice. "The strings broke."

"How?"

"It fell on the floor. Gabriel and Edmund were fighting over it."

"That's not true!" Gabriel protested. "She was the one playing with it! She was trying to play it, but she can't!"

Father switched gazes to Edmund. Being the youngest, Ed was the most afraid of Father at the moment and therefore was the most likely to rat the real culprit out. "Edmund," Father said in his deep, rich voice. Ed squirmed uncomfortably, now getting warning looks from the two most intimidating men in the family. "Who is telling the truth?"

"Er…" Ed paled, not daring to look at either one of them.

"Edmund." My father's voice was sharp.

"All right!" Edmund blurted out. "Angie's telling the truth!"

Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "Traitor!"

Then, Mother and Charles, who'd been at the nearby music shop, entered. Mother, immediately sizing up the situation, put her hands on her hips and looked at Edmund and Gabriel. "What's going on, Erik?" she asked knowingly.

"Our son has seen fit to lie directly to my face, make up a terrible falsehood about his only sister," my father said silkily, "and blame something he and his brother did on her."

Mother's gaze turned almost as scary as my father's. I swear, we have the most frightening parents in the world. I kid you not. "Gabriel Jaques Destler," Mother said, "how could you?"

Gabriel colored in shame. "I- I'm sorry," he stammered.

"You'd best be," Father said, a furious glint in his eyes. "Because for the next month, you will do whatever your sister requires of you. This includes you, Edmund."

"What?" Gabriel and Edmund squawked. But when Father's eyes narrowed, they looked down at the floor and muttered, "Yes, sir."

While they, Charles, and Mother left the room, Father came up to me and gazed down at me, his gaze softened. "Angeline, my darling," he said warmly, running a hand over my black curls, "were you indeed trying to fix my violin?"

I nodded, still feeling miserable. Sniffling, I tried to wipe my nose, but the tears still stung my skin. Father took a seat gracefully beside me, and with his long, slender, yet powerful fingers, gently pulled off my mask and carefully wiped the tears off my skin. Reaching up, I tugged his mask off, cradling it in my hands. I studied it and ran my fingers along the different bumps of smooth white porcelain.

Then, he bent down and kissed my forehead, right where my mottled skin met the smooth, normal skin.

"I love you, my angel," he said softly, his voice soft and warm in my ear.

"I love you, too," I replied, happily burying myself into his dark, warm chest. His arms wrapped around me, and I couldn't remember a time I felt safer, protected, or loved.

I didn't notice my mother watching us from the doorway, a small smile on her face, tears glistening in her beautiful brown eyes.

Gabriel didn't bother me for a while after that particular incident, but soon enough, he was back to his mischievous ways. And this time, my other brothers were involved as well, including the normally kind Charles.

Charles and I got along well. He was much older than I – a little over six years. Sometimes he'd take to teasing me like Gabriel and Edmund, but usually, he was more reserved. Like Father, he was dedicated to music, and already he wowed the crowds at the London Opera House, taking part in some of the productions when Mother was onstage. He had a voice that was practically perfect already – though Father insisted it still needed some work – and I enjoyed listening to him. Gabriel and Edmund were on their way to becoming as talented a singer as he.

Unlike me.

I honestly cannot sing to save my life. One would think that with parents as musically gifted as my own, I'd have the voice and the musical talent of a famous ingénue. However, sadly enough, this is not so.

If my face weren't so much like my father's, I'd swear I'd been adopted and nobody told me.

No matter how much Mother and Father tried to teach me to sing, I just couldn't. I was off-key, I had no range, and my voice squeaked and cracked. Just plain horrible. Of course, my parents wouldn't give up on me, especially my father, but that didn't mean I got any better over the years.

When my brothers started to sing (harmony included, and perfectly on key, blast them) one day, I tried to join in. Instantly I wrecked the whole trio by attempting to become a quartet, and my brothers winced.

"Er, Angie," Charles said, trying to be kind, "would you mind? We're trying to practice for the concert." Sometimes, when my mother would have her own concerts, she'd let my brothers sing one or two songs. They were the stars of the show every time.

I sighed. It was useless. "Sorry," I muttered, and hurried up to my room.

Unfortunately, I wasn't musically gifted in any way, but the one thing I did like to do was write. Papers always littered my room as I wrote stories – from fantasy to mystery to romance, and sometimes, a mixture of all of them. I didn't like other people reading my stories except for Father. My brothers really didn't know what I wrote, and although Mother wanted to read them, for some reason, I was too embarrassed to show her.

But Father would always enjoy my stories and give me honest, yet kind criticism. Sometimes he'd read them out to me as we both lay on my bed, me curled up against him, and him reading with that soothing voice of his. Every night he'd read to me. He told me he used to read to Mother. It was our nightly time together, something I treasured even as I grew past the age of thirteen.

I don't know if Father was ever disappointed that I'd never been a singer or a musician, not even an architect or an artist like he was (and of course, my brothers had picked up on those traits as well), but I know he was pleased that I'd taken up some hobby.

But what I really loved, a passion of mine, was the art of fencing. The fresh air, the whistling of the swords, the strong beat of my heart against my ribcage, the delicious strategy involved… oh, I loved it all.

Luckily for me, and unluckily for my brothers, I had a definite aptitude for it.

The first time I saw a rapier, I was nine. It was my father's, and it was stuffed away in his closet, where I'd been hiding as my brothers and I played hide-and-seek. I tried to pick it up, but it was fairly heavy. But even after my brother found me, I didn't forget about it. That night, I marched up to Father and asked, "Father, what's that sword doing in your closet?"

Father blinked, surprised. "I don't need it, angel."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't need to fight anyone," he explained. He seemed to want to say something else, but when my mother looked up at him with an odd expression on her face, he remained silent.

I wouldn't know why they glanced at each other like that until Mother told me how she and Father really met and got married.

"Besides," Father continued, "it's a little old-fashioned. Everyone uses firearms now."

That didn't deter me. "Do you know how to use it?"

"Yes, of course." He sounded a little affronted. My mother rolled her eyes and returned to her baking.

I looked up at him firmly. "Can you teach me?"

Mother halted, and my father's mouth fell open a bit, startled at my question. "Well, I…" he trailed off and looked at my mother. But then, his lips twitched upward. "I don't see why not."

"Erik!" Mother protested. "She's only nine!"

"Fencing, my dear," he said, fighting back a grin, "is an excellent source of exercise, something every rambunctious child needs. Don't fear, Christine, I'd never let any harm come to my only daughter. It will be good for her. To fend off overeager suitors."

As Mother bent over to put the rolls in the oven, I heard her mutter, "Where was my sword when I needed it?"

My Father winced and rose from the table hastily, yet still managing to make it a smooth and graceful move. He did that. "Come, angel. Let's leave your mother in peace before she changes her mind."

Mother straightened and shot me a wide smile. "Have fun, Angie! And be careful, will you? If anything happens, let me know, all right?" I saw her shoot a deadly glare to Father.

"Of course, Mother!" I said as I followed Father out of the kitchen.

He showed me how to use the rapier, and from that first day, I was hooked. My Father seemed eager to teach me how to fight, and I was just as eager to learn. Although Mother warned me to tell her if I was injured in any way, as I grew older and got better, I learned to hide my bruises, afraid that she'd make Father stop teaching me. I loved it too much.

One day, my brothers happened to find us fencing and of course wanted to join in on the fun.

"Of course," my father said, an amused twinkle in his eye, "if you think you can beat Angeline, which I highly doubt."

I grinned back at him.

"Of course we can," Charles said arrogantly. "After all, she's only nine."

"And she's a girl," Gabriel added oh-so-not-helpfully.

"Girls can't fight as well as boys," Edmund proceeded to finish.

My Father grinned widely. Really grinned. "We'll see."

I then proceeded to beat each of them several times. By the time I finished off Charles (for the fourth or fifth time, I couldn't remember), my father was laughing, and my mother, who had stepped outside to watch the scene, was also grinning.

"That's not fair!" Charles gritted out as he clambered to his feet. "Father, I want you to teach me like you teach her!"

Father raised an eyebrow. "Is that any way to ask for anything, son?"

Charles reddened. "No, sir," he muttered.

"Father, can you teach us?" Edmund asked, wearily rubbing his sore backside.

"Certainly," Father said.

I frowned. I wanted this to be between me and Father. No one else.

"I'll teach all of you. Now go inside and get cleaned up before your mother has a fit." He smiled as the boys hurried inside. I just stood there, dejected. Father turned to me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, my angel," he said warmly. "Your fencing lessons come first. We'll continue privately, just as I teach the boys their music. This will be for us and us alone."

"But you're still going to teach them," I said sadly. "Then they're going to beat me."

A wicked gleam came into his eyes. "I doubt that. I have a few more tricks up my sleeve to show you."

I grinned. This was going to be good.

Despite my lack of musical prowess, despite my mask and the fact that I'm the youngest girl in a family of three older brothers, I really can't complain.

It's nice being my father's daughter.

Until I got my first suitor, that is.

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FIN

Well, that's all she wrote... for now, that is. :) Feedback is appreciated!

I'm tempted to end this story like I do for my other Phanphic... some of you might know it. Ah, what the hey. :D

Dear Readers, I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to review. If you do not, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur! I remain, Readers, your obedient servant, OG In Training.