Introduction:

Here it is. My first, serious attempt at writing.

I realise that the relationship between the main characters may be slightly confusing at first, so therefore this short introduction:

Charles-Raoul de Chagny is accompanying his father, Raoul de Chagny, on a business-trip to Vienna. So far the journey has been a strained affair as father and son have spent very little time together since Charles was born. Charles (and his four siblings) has been raised by their mother Christine and her "new husband" Comte Erik Tascher, whom Charles loves as a father.

Apart from being a renowned composer, architect and patron of the Palais Garnier, Comte Tascher is extremely secretive - especially about his past, which mystifies his five children as it is supposedly uneventful. But in Vienna Charles meets Prince Richárd Eszterházy, who makes some startling accusations about Erik. This leads Charles to question his beloved stepfather - but is any of them ready for the consequences?

Who is Richárd Eszterházy? And what exactly is his motive for egging Charles, Erik, Christine and Raoul towards the final Point of No Return?

But, more importantly, who is Comte Erik Tascher?

This is his story.

And now, without further ado - Some Touch of Erik. I very much hope you like it.

Rose

Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera.

Some Touch of Erik

Part I

"The Devil's Grandchild"- covering the years 1832-1855

Vienna – December 6th 1904

My darling Siss,

The first letter from Vienna – and you know I never write letters. But here I am, with Father, doing exactly what I don't want to do. I am acting the part of the perfect son of a Vicomte. It's snowing, at home I would have snow ball fights with you, Gustave, Auguste and Rose – or listening to Erik singing and playing the piano or violin. In stead I am sitting in a hotel room, restless and homesick. Writing to you is my only consolation. I dare not write Maman or Erik – they were not pleased with my decision to go. I could write to Gustave, of course, but somehow I suspect such a letter will not be welcome. He probably still thinks that I have betrayed Erik by coming with Father on this trip. But, Maddo, how else would I ever get to see this city? Erik has always flat out refused to go on any tour involving Vienna – but at the same time arguing that no self-respecting musician could live without experiencing Vienna. Why let me get the best musical education if I am never to leave France? Therefore, as I see it, He basically forced me to go with Father, when Father offered me the chance of a lifetime!

But I will not repeat the angry words that came before my departure. You see, all the arguments born out of that decision, all the battles fought and won by my "youthful pride and arrogance" have been in vain. The supreme musical experience is not to be mine; I am merely assisting Father in his business – and occasionally allowed the role of a normal, ignorant tourist. I have not received violin lessons, there have been precious few concerts and operas (no meeting with any musicians) and I have not been allowed to stop and enjoy the music in the streets. With my schedule of lunches with directors and financiers, dinners at the houses of prospective brides I have had no time for music. Think of that; no music.

Well, I have been here for a fortnight and this is my first quiet moment. Father is in his rooms, meeting a possible investor or other, who, apparently, might be more receptive without my presence. That's a first. Normally I'm never let out of his sight.

Our hotel is downright luxurious – marble columns, gold candelabras, flowers everywhere, and more servants than guests. (Father's business must have gone well in the past few years to afford staying in such a place.) I have my own suite – with a bathroom, a balcony and an excellent view of the Stephansdom (the enormous Viennese Cathedral; not nearly as elegant as our Notre-Dame!). However, my suite is connected to Father's by an adjoining door. I am never entirely alone. Today, he has already been in here three times (it's noon), asking my opinion on where to dine, what to see (we have seen several museums and art galleries, we have visited many shops) – and as a treat: which opera to go to. He startled me with that question. Father has made it very clear that he does not approve of me having any musical interests.

Being with Father is far from easy. Though he is in many ways a kind and generous man (we have purchased quite a few gifts for you), he is also impossible talk to. He has a polite answer to any question, more often than not accompanied with a smile. But it seems a façade, a shield nothing unconventional can penetrate. Father is actually quite old fashioned. I am surprised that he is involved in business; that he doesn't stay at home at the chateau. I tried to ask him why on the train. My answer was a smile and a verbal pat on the head. Do not trouble yourself, my son. After an hour or so of such reactions to any question, I gave up and retreated behind a treatise on playing violin in Vivaldi-style (You know I'm having such trouble with his concerts). Father's voice cut through my readings. He asked my opinion on the latest developments in the senate (of which I have none). When I finally had deflected all his inquiries and picked up my book, he looked almost pained. Charles, please put that book away. It is not fitting reading for a vicomte. In fact, it is beneath you. Then he reached over and took my book – and threw it out of the train window. I have never heard him speak that way before, much less do such a thing.

I was much too shocked to protest, but wondered if that attitude is why Maman left him. Imagine Maman living for 10 years with a man, who doesn't approve of music? Erik, on the other hand, is the living breathing music. However, I know that there is a music room at Father's chateau (though nothing like ours at Malmaison) – so why this strange attitude, why this intense dislike? If my previous conversations with Father are anything to go by I shall never know the answer. The shield of politeness will prevent that. Anyway, I am hiding my sheet music – I do not want him to tear it to pieces… I may be a vicomte by birth, but I am a musician by upbringing. And choice.

Maddo, I shall have to leave now. Father is knocking on the door, apparently he has great news.

We're going to…

Later – 4 AM,

Maddo, I have been at the Schönbrunn Palace tonight!!! I have spoken to the Emperor (well, it was just a 'good evening Your Majesty' but still, it's more than you!). I have danced with one of the most beautiful women in the world – accompanied by the best orchestra, ever! It surpassed even the orchestra at the Garnier. In fact, I have only heard one person play better than those musicians (you know who it is). I was positively intoxicated by the sound; it resonated through every corner of the palace. I swear, we could hear even from the fine carriage sent by Father's friend, a duke no less. I heard the lilting, inviting notes of a waltz. I could feel my smile emerge and spread to my eyes. I felt transformed, uplifted – I had begun to despair of ever experience anything like that here in the City of Music. Father looked horrified and said the most astounding thing -

"You look like your Mother, Charles. All consumed by music."

He has never mentioned her before. He has mentioned you a couple of times, enquiring after your health and so on, but never Maman. Did you notice that he didn't greet her at the train station, when we left?

With his words ringing in my ears we stepped out of the carriage, the new fallen snow crushing under our feet. I so wish that you could have been here, so you might have seen the palace dressed in Christmas splendour. The courtyard was full of carriages, people dressed for gala. There were soldiers in fine uniforms, carrying torches lighting up the whole courtyard. I looked up; every window was filled with light. It was the most spectacular sight I have ever seen. I felt Father squeeze my hand; I looked at him – he was really looking at me. Maddo, I think that was the first time he really noticed me. He gave me a strange look. Bittersweet, I think. Then he spoke. Do it, Charles, follow the music – just like your Mother before you.

I followed the music.

It has been an evening with music of the most exquisite kind, but also an evening of strangeness. Father's remark was merely the beginning. When we entered the great ballroom, a room so big I think Malmaison entire would fit in – with room to spare, the orchestra finished their previous number and immediately began another. But that number, I swear – Maddo, it sounded like it was written by Erik. It contained phrases that were lifted directly out of The Spanish Opera. It was completely different from what they had been playing before; I could see it in the bemused faces of the dancers. They stopped for a couple of moments, but then it was as if the music seized them – its passion luring, beckoning more people on the dance floor. Father gripped my shoulder hard – he recognised the music, too. But where would he have heard it? Erik says Don Juan Triumphant has never been performed in its entirety. However, it ended strangely, changing into a traditional waltz. Though beautiful and seductive in its own right, it was nothing compared to the passion expressed in the beginning. In my ears, it was as if the composer (the Court Violinist, we were told) had only seen parts of Erik's score and had had to fill in the blanks. However, Father looked relieved at the change, muttering something about bizarre coincidences. I was convinced it was no coincidence.

Father nudged me in the direction of a very pretty girl, who had just come off the dance floor. I approached her, like a dutiful son, and asked to dance with her. Normally looking into a pair of eyes so blue and so innocent make me think thoughts not so innocent. (Don't mock me, Maddo) Now I just longed to be introduced to the Court Violinist. A little careful prodding and the blue-eyed vision told me what I wanted to know – the Court Violinist is Prince Richárd Eszterházy, an impoverished scion of the great Hungarian family. A virtuoso, he is also a strange character – reclusive and always dressed in black. During a particular difficult turn in the quadrille my sweet Vision told me that he never smiles. A shy smile and a blushing compliment from me and I had his address. A few more turns, a few more niceties and she offered to lead me to his rooms. Though he has a suite in one of the Eszterházy palaces, due to his connections and his position, he also has a suite at Schönbrunn.

It was two floors up. The music became almost inaudible. Again, I had this feeling of strangeness. I remembered Erik talking of his childhood, of a palace filled with music, but also with floors so quiet it seemed the music would never enter. I know, there are countless palaces in the world, Maddo, but I felt the presence of Erik so strong, as if he was walking next to me. I felt cold in the hallway, shuddering. The girl next to me leaned conspiratorially closer, a scent of white jasmine filling my nostrils. Listen. I listened and heard the faint sounds of a single violin floating out from under a door further down the corridor. Music so beautiful; sensual, beckoning, and strangely passionate. The trademark of Erik, none other could have composed the notes filling the air.

Have you ever had the feeling that a simple action could change your life? Turning the doorknob, our feet creaking on the floorboards; opening the doors to a new world. It was almost a disappointment to find ordinary furniture, mahogany tables, burgundy brocade walls and armchairs. However, he was there. Standing in front of the windows, with his back to us, all dressed in black, violin perched elegantly on the shoulder – with the whiteness behind him he looked gothic – all black and white. As he remained in the same pose and the music continued, I began to doubt that he had even heard us. Then, it happened – the virtuoso's hand wavered. He was in doubt of what to play next! As I knew exactly where he was in the aria –

"It's a B flat, Your Highness."

My companion froze. The violin left the shoulder. He turned; surprise clearly in the haughty blue eyes.

"How would you know?"

"My step-father wrote that aria."

"Then you are Charles… The son of…"

"Yes."

"Excuse us, my dear, the vicomte and I will discuss boring musical stories for a while. Run back to your admirers, there's a good girl."

Maddo, I'm sad to say I had forgotten her. Completely. In fact, I'm not even certain that acknowledged her leaving. The prince had that effect on me. In this dark room, the moon shining in through the windows, I felt understood and at home. You see, he looks slightly like Maman's old photograph of Erik (you know, the one on her nightstand). Dark, unkempt hair – most of it in a ponytail, but one or two strands dangling in front of his eyes. His face is so white and he is so thin that he looks as if he has spent years locked away, but his features are nice. I expect most of your chatterbox friends would adore him, if not for the danger that he somehow exudes. (Perhaps they would adore him because of that?) But it was the eyes that reminded me of Erik. Haunted eyes that have seen all the sadness in the world. They beg you to stay, yet command you to leave at the same time. What has the world done to him?

Our Erik has always looked like that. He has never taken anything for granted, but always seemed surprised that we love him so much. That's why it hurt arguing with him, causing Erik such pain was awful. Maman mentioned dark memories by way of explaining his hurt, but I always assumed she was protecting him. Or at the very least, that she was overstating matters greatly. She wasn't. If anything I now think Maman was understating things. Probably because He has never trusted Maman with his story; He was afraid if she knew, she would leave. That has always been His worst fear, even when Maman is asleep in His arms having been sung to sleep. Erik has always feared that Maman would blame him for his life and leave. And after tonight, after what Richárd told me (assuming it's the truth)…

The door closed behind the girl.

"You are really the stepson of the Phantom of the Opera?"

"I beg your pardon? Oh, yes – I am. That's what they call him at the Garnier because he moves about so quietly. It's a silly old legend, really. They also call him the angel of music. His name…"

"I was under the impression that it had something to do with his deformed face…"

"His face has NOTHING to do with it! He was burned in the opera house fire 35 years ago! How dare you?"

His lips twitched; his 'smile' came and disappeared again.

"Forgive me, please. I didn't mean any offence. Doubtless I am misinformed; unreliable court gossip, you know? I am deeply sorry."

"Court gossip? No, I don't know. We Frenchmen do not have a court, as you may know. And I fail to see why my stepfather should be of such interest to the Austrian court. Perhaps because you steal his music! That piece you were playing so badly is called…"

"'She Walks in Beauty', yes I know. But you really shouldn't lie, Charles, even if you're angry. I was playing it very well indeed. I saw recognition in your eyes, one musician to another. You are known to be a very fine violinist, taught by one of the best – you know quality when you hear it. But if you wonder why Austria is interested in your stepfather; he was born here. Born in this very palace, possibly this very room."

"He was what, Richárd? No, Erik is French."

"Yes, he is now. But before…Anyway, B flat, you say. Oh yes, it is beautiful…Thank you, Charles. I really am sorry. I am not used to talk civilly to people. Mostly they do not care to talk to me. I am a lesser prince Eszterházy forced to earn my keep, thus I am too high and too low at the same time."

At this point I didn't care. The spell created by the music was gone, another magical trick made by Erik. The world, however, is not lived in a state of heightened reality, but plain flat prose. Father would say as much and for once I was inclined to agree. I didn't know what to make of this bitter, but very talented prince. At the door, I heard the violin again. The music was making his apology for him, filling the room – recreating the powerful atmosphere; begging me to turn around and stay. He played and I began to believe. How could Erik not be born here, surrounded by music? I'd like him to be born here. So I sat down to listen to Erik's music played in Erik's room. Richárd really does play very well.

"You should write and ask him where he was born. I could be wrong, you know. But when I moved in here, I was told that the Phantom of the Opera was born here. But as it is well-known here that I regard Erik Tascher to be the greatest composer of all-time they could have been fooling me. He is a bit of a mystery…"

"Yes, he is. Even to his family. Actually I quite certain he's born in Evreux, which is an hour away from Paris. But doubtlessly he'd find it ironic that the Viennese claim he's born here. He hates this city."

"I know. He was offered the position as Court Composer just after the trial. He refused. It created quite a stir. But tell me, how did they react to…"

"The Spanish piece? That also caused 'quite a stir', but also produced some beautiful dancing. How did you get the notes for that; he never finished that piece."

"But Charles, your step-father didn't write that. It was written by the first Phantom of the Opera, who burned down the opera house."

"Richárd, you really are special. You believe in ghost stories? That fire was caused by the great chandelier crashing. It was a horrible disaster, but there was no 'Phantom' involved. I'll ask my sister, Louisa Madeleine, she knows the whole story. You know that Erik was the architect on the new chandelier; that one will never crash. He has made certain of that and as for the music, I am quite…"

"Your Majesty, cousin, how wonderful it is to see you tonight. May I introduce…"

I had not even heard the door open. But there he was, the Emperor of Austria, 3 feet away. I scrambled to my feet. He acknowledged my greeting, but beckoned Richárd to accompany him. I hastened to follow. I walked behind them back to the ballroom, where they were met with applause. Father came for me; nervously wondering where I'd been – but on looking into my eyes sadly concluding that I had been' chasing music'. I danced a couple of dances with my vision; she is really beautiful, sweet and charming. Her name is Marianna. When she left, Father smilingly informed me that her father was one of the financiers I met last week. I felt I liked her rather less after that information. We made ready to go home, but not before Richárd had introduced himself and persuaded Father to come for tea three days from now.

"Give my regards to the Phantom", he whispered and ran up the staircase at breakneck speed. After which Father and I drove to our hotel, in absolute silence.

I have a distinct feeling this journey will be the making or the breaking of me. It has already been filled to the brim with emotion. I do not know how much more I can take. I have already hurt Erik and now I have to pry into his past. He will not like that. However, I can at least start with making amends.

So, please, give my love to Erik and Maman – and little Gustave and the girls.

I remain your obedient servant and Brother,

Charles-Raoul, vicomte de Chagny