Disclaimer: Despite my many attempts to kidnap, lure, or bribe Erik into my possession, all have failed, so he (and anything Phantom related) is not mine.
AN: Yay for a new story! I hope that this lives up to the same standards of my first fic. All locations and characters are fictional things from my mind (except Erik), so if anything sounds like a real person/place/thing, it's only by pure coincidence, so please don't sue or tell me that it's "wrong." Also, same as in the previous story, Erik will have the same naturally dark hair (because I want him to). Please don't hesitate to review and let me know how I'm doing! Thanks, and enjoy!
Chapter 1: New World, New Beginnings:
Staggering out of the Opera House, the Phantom turned and watched as his childhood home burned to the ground. Tears poured from his eyes as his mind played the recent events over and over again, torturing him with the fact that Christine had left him for another, a man with a whole face who could give her the world of light as a gift.
'And now my darkness is complete,' he thought, falling to his knees as stones crumbled and wood changed to ash and dust before his eyes. 'I have nothing now.'
They would find him and kill him for what he had done. All of those innocent people who had likely died in the fire, the kidnapping of Christine during Don Juan, and the near-murder of the Vicompt de Chagny…those were all crimes that he would have to pay for in blood.
'My blood,' he thought, gazing up at the collapsing structure. 'I have not paid for much in my life, and now it is time for them to collect it from me.'
In his mind's eye, he could see the day of his death. He could see the crowds now, all of the people gathered around him as guards dragged him to the gallows. As he walked, they would begin throwing stones, vegetables, even human waste, all of it hurled at him as they began taunting him and cursing him for his crimes against Paris. Once the crowd had its fill, he would be hung, his feet dangling as his soul was released to go straight into the bowels of Hell. The mere thought of eternal torment both terrified and angered him.
'I can't let that happen…I won't let that happen.'
Pushing himself to his feet, he quickly made his escape to a nearby apartment he had rented. He had acquired it in his hopes to bring Christine there after she had agreed to marry and stay with him. After the chaos had settled down, he had planned to take them far away, possibly to Spain or Germany, where he could provide a good life for them both.
And now it was gone.
Slamming the door behind him, Erik once more fell to his knees, this time in relative safety. The sudden sound of metal hitting the ground in the room upstairs startled him out of his thoughts. It sounded like money falling…
At that moment, a wide grin spread across his face as a plan formed in the depths of his mind.
'Who knew that a single boat voyage could be so strenuous?' Erik thought to himself as the train rolled along towards its destination.
The soothing movements of the train were a welcome change from the constant churning of the ship he had been on for the past several weeks. On solid land, the swaying was gentle and only side-to-side, quickly making him drowsy in his own little sleeping cabin. At sea, the waves tossed everyone up, down, sideways, and every other ways a man could think of. It had been enough to drive him mad after a short time, and had made him vow never to travel that ghastly way ever again in his life.
Even though he'd traveled in first class and had privacy away from others, his trip to the Americas by ship had still been a strain on his mind and body. Seasickness had plagued him for days before he'd finally taken an effective medicinal draught, given to him by a sympathetic manservant that had been assigned to him. After that, he'd eaten sparingly and in the remoteness of his cabin, staring out the window, reading, or composing music in his head without the benefit of an instrument before him. It had been hard, but he had done it.
And now he was here: America, the Land of Opportunity, a place to start a new life away from the prying, searching eyes of Paris. Here he did not have to fear anyone looking for him, he would not have to cautiously look around every corner to be sure the way was clear and safe for him to travel. In America, it was highly doubtful that anyone would have heard of him. And if they had, would they actually believe the tales, or pass them off as stories made up by the French to attract visitors to the city? Well, it didn't matter. He was here now, and it was to be his new home.
But America was a large place. Where could he settle away from others but still be near civilization? The West was still being explored and was too rough for his tastes, and he required an air of civility and elegance for him to work; a log cabin or a crude shack in the middle nowhere was not for composing! The upper East Coast was far too crowded and too much like Paris, so that left only one place.
Erik could only hope it was the right one.
From his perch in his one-horse carriage, Erik surveyed the property before him. It was wide, with rolling fields of flowers and trees all around it. There was a great deal of land between him and his nearest neighbors, which was perfect for Erik's dislike of constant visitors. The young fool who had sold this prime bit of property was overjoyed to be getting such a large sum for his ancestral home, which had been in his family for generations. Erik hadn't understood why he would sell such a fine place to a French stranger.
On the other hand, the place was a tad rundown; the windows were cracked or chipped, and the chimney probably could use a good cleaning, but the house was still in good working order. The white paint was peeling off and would have to either be completely stripped off or redone, and several shutters had either fallen off or been removed and never replaced. Ivy grew up the sides on the smooth, white marble pillars in the front, but that was charming rather than annoying. Yes, the ivy would stay, though the obvious moss growing up along the porch would have to be scrapped off. Oddly enough, there were a few burn marks on bits of the house, though from what, he did not know.
'Something about a war a decade or two ago,' Erik thought as directed the horse and carriage forward. The young man hadn't been clear on that.
To his surprise, as he arrived at the front porch, a group of three dark-skinned people came out to meet him. An older black man and a black woman of about the same age stood there, looking at him with curiosity in their dark eyes. The man, tall and well-built, was dressed in a black butler outfit and looked to be about sixty years old. The woman wore a plain green dress with a white apron over it, apparently filling the role as cook. The third person was also female, a woman in her thirties, and looked to be a maid. Puzzled, Erik stepped down from the carriage and tried not to draw back as the two people came forward to greet him.
"Sir, I'm Marcus Jones, and I'll be your butler, stable hand, and personal servant," the black man said, bowing slightly. "My wife, Jill, her real name is Jillian, but everyone calls her Jill for short, is to be your cook. My daughter, Laura, is the cleaning maid and will also run errands as needed."
Erik raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall Mr. Clark informing me that servants were included along with the property," he said. "And slavery is illegal now, is it not?" The three others nodded. "So why are you still here?"
"We've got no place else to go, sir," Laura replied, suddenly looking fearful. "We've been here for our whole lives, and our grandpa before us was born here. You won't throw us out, will you?"
Erik sighed. "No, I won't." He suddenly straightened up, standing at five inches above Marcus's head. "You may stay, under one condition: you leave me in peace and quiet. I am a man who enjoys solitude, and you will only come when called for. I dislike noise very much, unless I am the one who makes it. Other than that, feel free to do what you please." He waved his gloved hand towards the carriage, and Marcus practically jumped forward to deal with it. Jill and Laura stepped aside and followed him as he entered the house.
It was his first visit to the home, though he had seen drawings of the interior and exterior of the place before he had bought it. Upon his arrival in the southern states of America, Erik had waited a whole week for his funds to be successfully transferred overseas so he could access them. Decades of embezzling money from the Populaire's managers had added up quickly, and now Erik was free to spend it as he willed.
The first thing he had done was to purchase the latest fashions in clothing (which should be considered out of fashion by the time they arrived from Europe). Next came the need to acquire a home to live in. He had hired an agent to find him a suitable house, a large place where he could loose himself in his music, his painting, and his sculptures. Many drawings and descriptions of homes were tossed aside as too small, too overly done, or just plain tacky. Then, one day, a young man with orange hair and green eyes walked into Erik's hotel room.
Joseph Clark had been at the ends of his ropes, trying to find a better life in New Orleans, Louisiana, when he heard about Erik's search for a home. Joseph was on the last bit of his family's money and his own savings in a quest for a new life, and had immediately raced for the hotel in order to sell his family's summer home in southern Virginia.
"I can assure you, Mr. Rousseau, the house is in wonderful working order," the young man said, his tone nervous, but honest. "The War has cost my family dearly over the years, and I am desperate. Selling this house would bring my parents and I a tidy sum, and since we have rarely used the place, it would be of no great sentimental loss for us to sell it to someone who could enjoy it far better."
Joseph had then begun drawing abstract images of the rooms of the home's interior, describing each one in detail even as he drew it onto the paper. What caught Erik's attention was that the home included a room that was a mix of both a study and a library, a room that had thick drapes to keep out the sun and protect any books from damage. There was a spacious dining room for casual days, a far larger one for banquets (though Erik would never hold one!), a large ballroom, and best of all, a music room that was larger than any other house previously offered to him.
Luckily for Erik, the boy had the manners and appearance of an honest man, and was a decent enough artist to draw accurate sketches of the rooms. The furniture was in pristine condition, he was assured, and thanks to the remaining servants, it was spotless as well. The outside needed work, but since the Clark's had rarely lived in it, much less cared for or looked at it, it wasn't something that he could argue against. The Clark family had been extremely fortunate that the house and the nearby town of Rockford had been so far away from major roads, sparing it from being destroyed by troops from the Armies during the War.
After displaying drawings of the rooms, assuring Erik that the furniture would be included in the sale, and describing the area around the plantation, Joseph had walked out of the Blue Crown Hotel a much richer man than he'd entered it.
"It will do," Erik said aloud as he looked around. Luckily everything was just as he had thought it would be, or else he would have had to hunt down Joseph Clark and teach the young man a difficult lesson. He bit back a grin after hearing the servants give a sigh of relief. "I would like dinner at seven o' clock, Jill, if you please."
"Yes, sir," the older woman replied, grabbing her daughter and running for the kitchen, even though dinner was four hours away.
Sighing, Erik headed towards the music room to drown his thoughts in his piano.
It had taken him longer than expected to get his home just as he wanted it. The organ he had ordered had taken over a month to arrive, and setting it up had taken just as long. But it had been worth it. He had tuned the instrument to perfection, and now he was able to play and compose to his heart's content. Honestly, how had he survived two whole months in this house without it? True, others might find the organ a loud and offensive instrument, but Erik loved to channel his emotions through the black and white ivory keys, and thankfully, the Jones family did not mind it, either. Apparently the vast silence of the house was too much for them at times.
'I can see why,' Erik thought to himself as he tapped a few notes to warm up his fingers.
The house stood only two levels high, but it extended over a great deal of space. Each room was incredibly spacious, sporting high ceilings and could make anyone feel insignificant. Even the closets were vast, though for a man of Erik's tastes, it suited his wardrobe quite well. And should his own closet in the master bedroom run out of space, there were the closets in the five guestrooms that he could use…
'But what am I ever going to use that ballroom and parlor for? Needless to say, I am not one for having guests.'
But at least those rooms provided Laura with something to clean. The poor woman was so good at cleaning things that, even a week later, the object or room remained clean of dust! She even asked Erik to drop things or dirty them on purpose so that she could keep busy. She claimed that there would be more for her to clean up if he weren't such a tidy man already and if he would have guests over for tea, cigars, or drinks.
When she had first proposed that idea six months ago, Erik had immediately stopped that idea in its tracks. No guests would ever cross his doorstep, not to visit a man with a face like his. The Jones' had no qualms about his appearance, and Laura and Jill had begged him to make friends with the other landowners and attend parties, but Erik refused to put himself on display for others to talk about behind his back. No one knew of his past or his twisted face here, and he did not want them to; after all, he knew from experience what people did to those who were different.
'No, it's better that I am alone in my house with my music…and my solitude.'
With that thought, Erik once again lost himself in the notes of his instrument.
Eight months after he'd arrived at his new residence, Erik did his best not to make eye contact with others as his carriage rolled down the main avenue of Rockford. He had rarely shown his face in town, and many people were curious about the isolated newcomer. Erik had not wanted to go into the busy place anymore than he had to, but since a new violinmaker had set up shop in the center of town, he felt that this might call for one of his rare trips into the public eye.
It was said that this violinmaker had exquisite talents in crafting instruments, incredible pieces that reflected the personality and musical tastes of those who bought from him. However, having Mr. Damon Goodrich craft a violin for meant having to meet the man in person, and he did not make house calls! If you did not meet him, you did not get an instrument, and that was final. So here Erik was, riding in his carriage and being driven by Marcus, who was just happy that his master was out of the house and in the sunshine.
As the horse and carriage pulled up to Goodrich's door, Marcus leapt out and opened the door to let Erik out. The masked man had barely set foot on the ground before he was approached by a rather jolly, round, elderly man who had a smile that was very catching to any to saw it. Even Erik had a hard time staying coldly impassive towards him. The short man walked up to him and offered a hand.
"Mr. Rousseau, it's so nice to see you! I'm Thomas Brooks, but you can call me Tom," he said, grinning.
Erik smiled in return and accepted the hand. "A pleasure, monsieur," he replied, bowing his head.
"Oh, none of that formality!" Tom chided, wagging a finger at him. "We're all friends here, you know, and as a member of this fine community, I'd like to invite you to dinner this evening at my home. I know my wife Martha would be happy to meet you, and we'd love to get to know you better."
"Dinner?" Erik could only stand and blink at him in surprise.
Tom laughed and smacked him on the back with a gentle, friendly hand. "Of course! We'll see you tonight, given that our cook makes enough to feed an army instead of just Martha and myself! No, no, don't refuse," he said, holding a hand up to stop any protests. "Just bring yourself and an empty stomach to my home. Your man knows where it is, since his wife and my cook are old friends."
Without another word, he walked away, leaving a very stunned Erik behind him.
As Erik soon discovered, having Tom and Martha Brooks as first-time friends in Rockford meant that a man has the entire town's approval in a matter of days. After having dinner at the Brooks' home, Erik soon began receiving invitations to light social gatherings, afternoon cigars with the men of the town, and formal balls and parties. Being the private man that he was, Erik refused the balls and parties, but would go to one afternoon cigar event (though he didn't actually participate in the vile habit), then progressed to attend an afternoon tea once every two weeks; being around chatty people (especially women) for three hours in a day was all he could stand.
Though he'd never admit it, it was nice to be around people who did not hate him for his appearance. It was surprising that, in America, people that did not avoid him like a plague. Many thought that, as a young man, he'd been wounded in the War and had fled to France before returning to the States. Some people actually knew about facial deformities, but did not think of Erik as a cursed man; they thought that perhaps a childhood illness or accident had left him scarred and believed that was why he wore the mask. Either way, he was accepted for the way he was and nothing more.
Then came a true turning point in Erik's life. On the one-year anniversary of his arrival in Rockford, Tom threw a "small" party for Erik to celebrate the occasion. In Erik's opinion, it had been a very grave mistake on Tom's part. This was because, up until the night of the party, Erik had done all he could to avoid the young female socialites; with this celebration, he had been forced into the public eye, particularly that of the available women.
To his surprise, most (if not all) of the young women or girls actually found him attractive. From the moment he'd arrived at Thomas' party, all of the marriageable women began fluttering their fans and eyelashes at him, trying to catch his attention and hopefully dance with him. Some even boldly approached him to flirt! He could not understand why, until Martha explained it to him.
"You are a handsome young man, dear," the elderly woman said. She was a female equivalent to her husband: short, plump, white-haired, and endlessly jolly. "With that black hair and those green eyes, not to mention you're head and shoulders above every other man here, of course the young ladies are going to notice you! Well, that and the lovely large home you have with no wife to keep it for you."
Erik had thought that it had merely been his wealth that attracted the female eye, but never did he believe that they would find him physically attractive enough to want to marry him! There were other men who were also handsome and had money, so perhaps it was also the fact that he was from France that captured the female's attention.
However, Erik knew that he would never love again. No woman would want him after seeing his true face. They might be attracted to what appeared to be his 'handsome' side, the left half of his face, as well as the mysterious air of his mask, but they would not admire him so once he had shown them what lay beneath the white porcelain.
'And I would eventually have to show her, whoever 'she' is.'
This was true. Whether before the marriage proposal, after it, or after the wedding ceremony, he would have to show his true face. He could imagine his betrothed or new bride screaming, fainting, or running away from him, calling him a beast and a monster, begging for him to release her from their engagement or marriage vows. Then he would be alone.
'I will not have another incident like I had with Christine,' he thought after the party. 'I would sooner die than have the past repeat itself!'
And so he chose solitude. For the sake of his heart, as well as for others, Erik Rousseau would spend the rest of his life alone in his home, composing music and knowing that true love that was likely not meant to be.
'Or at least…not for me.'
AN: Aw, poor Erik! Don't worry, this will be a happy story, though there will be some lovely conflict in it just to make it interesting. Feel free to review and let me know how I'm doing!