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Alright, just a warning now, there's nothing yiffy in the first part of this tale, as I plan to have it mirror Weber's PotO closely enough. There is, however, a level of cursing and horror-esqueness to this part of the tale. Not recommended unless you're over 18 and comfortable with the original story of the Phantom of the Opera.

I took the time to write this as I thought it deserved, to the best of my capabilities anyways. If you start it, please finish it, I know it's long, but I promise that once the second part is finished, it will be worth it to complete reading.

Thank you for your time, and I hope to get some comments from those who like it, as well as those who don't. No one grows without feedback, folks, indulge my ego a little, will you? *wink*

~Papillon~

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Act I: The Phantom of the Opera

In some ways, I don't know why I write this account, to remember? Perhaps, though I feel it it more for those who come after me, those who would know me, know my works, my madness. For years now, I've lived in shadow and in cloak, loathing myself for the crazed creature that I was, and still am. You see, you must realize that I was born a monster....

You may say what you wish, but I myself remember my birth, my childhood. My mother was a prominant creature, well set in her ways, if you will, and widowed at a young age to a husband who's vice knew little limit. She bore in the middle of darkness a child who would after hence dwell there, a monstrosity unlike any other, me. I remember that she made for me my first article of clothing on the eve of my birth, too horrified to even look upon her own flesh and blood. It was a mask, a cloth mask that she sewed that night in the darkness, driven by fear, loathing, disgust, all of me. And yet, she could not resist me, for there was something about my voice, even in the plaintive cries of an infant, that she was powerless against.

And that was how I grew, some grotesque proginy, a genius of epic proportions, according to my scholars, who all came to the house, as per mother's request. I studied everything, devouring text and art, turning out my own marvels of structure and penmanship. Oh, what a fate, to be gifted with God's gracious talents, though cursed with the devil's face. I grew to learn architecture, composing, instruments, everything handed to me was prey for my hungering mind.

At the tender age of six, I was shown a sight of tremendous horror. That afternoon, I had shunned the newest made mask, one that bore a resemblance to that of a masquerade, demanding my mother tell me why I was made to bear it, it itched, scratched, and pained me terribly in it's crude design, but little did I know that this alone kept her from running from me. I cast down the mask on the eve of my birthday, and she subjected me to something I don't think I'll ever be able to forget. You see, for all of my life, I'd been hidden away from looking glasses, I realize now, this was for my own protection, protection from the demon in the mirror that was my reflection.

She had seized me by the wrist, her glistening black claws near gouging my young flesh as she hauled me with vehemence before a full length mirror, and to this day, what I saw housed there horrifies me. Deformity doesn't even begin to describe it. With my mother holding fast to my shoulders, I saw for the first time what sheer hellish ugliness and beauty looked like in comparison. Her face was furred, silkenly, and formed perfectly, my own was a horror I'll never rid myself of. Fur there was, but coarse, in patches over my face, eroded in places by both my mask and a malformation I've never fully understood. To add to this sight, where my right cheekbone ought to have been was sunken deeply, I hardly even had a face. My right eye was sunken as well, though not as drastically, more or less in parallel with my left, though it was a sorry milky color, white as could be, though for some reason, my vision was unmarred.

Then and there, I understood why she made me sport that damnable mask, that loathsome bit of cloth, shaped with hardened glue. She hated me, I saw it in those lovely eyes of hers, she wanted me to leave, but her piety and her cold resolve kept me by her. I decided to spare her the pain of my appearance, and left that very night, as she slept. I remember being lost, stumbling about for almost two weeks, my already slender little form eaten away by hunger and thirst. I took to stealing off of travellers, the masked thief, a child of six years. One fateful evening, however, a turn far for the worse was to come.

Gypsies, the word itself has become loathsome to me. I was captured while trying to snatch some of their provisions, by a hardened, brutish man, badger, his face scarred with age and many a fight, his lips drawing back from his sharp teeth as his claws pierced my flesh and his guttoral voice invaded my ears.

"You lousy savage, parading about in a mask and stealing from the likes of poor travellers? I ought to flay your miserable hide, you wretch! Little wolverines shouldn't wander so far from Mama's teats, you god forsaken scrap of fur!"

I felt the mask fly off even before the strike was delivered, my face bared to the gypsy as I fell, flung back from the blow a good metre or so. I cringed, though far more from fear of what he'd see than what he'd do. My paws flew to my face, trying in crazed futility to hide the monstrosity I was. Though it was too late, far far too late. He'd seen a glimpse of my garish face and wrenched my small paws from it as I closed my eyes, sobbing like the lost child I was. A grin then played over his striped face, and he whistled for the nearest other gypsy to come forth, a young fennec female.

He turned me towards her swiftly, and she screamed at my hideousness, falling backwards and starting to weep, her simple mind overladen by that one sight, a child with the devil's face. The badger turned me back to him, a dark smile playing over his face as he began to haul me towards a nearby cage.

"Little monsters belong here, caged with the rest of them. You're likely to bring me in many a gold piece, lad." I felt myself pulled up by the scruff of the neck by the large fur, cast roughly into the straw bedding, my shoulder hitting the metal bars behind me heavily. The clang of the door slamming rings in my ears even as I pen this, the sharp click of the lock sinks my spirits to such depths as I cannot fathom.

This was my home, a metal cage where furs were paraded before me, my mask ripped from my face at each display. I became accustomed to the horrified gasps, the ladies fainting into their beau's arms, the dispicable scent of their fear of me. For years I remained there, eventually learning the tricks of the trade, throwing my voice into objects to frighten onlookers, it's mesmerizing power stronger than it had been with my mother. In exchange for better quarters and food, I performed grotesque feats, contorting my flexible frame about in a series of frightening shapes, pulling off my own mask, gaining reputation as the "Devil's Emissary" as we toured in the caravan.

There came a time where I was let to walk about freely, having befriended many of the gypsies. I suppose one could say that my prison had become my sanctuary, that in my bondage, I had found freedom. No one here feared me anymore, so many years had passed with them seeing my grossly disfigured face daily. Jokes about me, nicknames, jovial little teases became commonplace, and I took them with a smile and laugh, though I didn't understand the tease of 'Don Juan' until I managed to procure a copy from a passing dealer of novels. That name came to hurt the most to me, as it's irony became more and more pronounced. I'd never have a lover, I concluded, simply because of my facial deformity, and I grew to hate all that were normal, starting to spend my time more and more with the others kept behind bars, the conjoined ewe twins, Eva and Lita, Jehin, an iguana type scaly, very rare in those parts, and the albino, a mouse male named Geral. Each had been captured, like me, though they longed for freedom more than anything, where I had become so embittered with life that I stayed for the security.

Geral, Eve, and Lita were astonished that I had stayed so long without running. They spoke to me of a world where our kind were hated and loathed for our various problems, where they had once lived, grown, loved. They spoke to me of leaving, for as long as I wore the mask, no one would know of my malformation. Angrily, I defended what had become my home, striking against them furiously, my claws raking the throats of each after the mask had torn from my face, and even in their eyes, I saw terror at my appearance, and Geral's sweet, childish voice rang out into the night with a ferocity and message I'd never forget.

"Aiden, that world will never accept the likes of us! You know this, we're the freaks that they pay shillings to gawk at, the parade of monsters on display for their horror and amazement. We're made a spectacle of, do you even care about that, Aiden?! We will never be of their sort, we're too different. When the world sees us as intelligent beings, perhaps we will be able to live in their world. For now, we create our own. Do you want the world of your creation to be one where others stare at you and cower at your coming? Go out, run, make for yourself a world there, Aiden! Devise something so beautiful and cowing that they'll have to bow to your genius! We've all seen you, heard you sing to those watchers, and you bewitch them, use that voice to better the world! Forget us, forget the caravan, strike out and make your own way!"

I remember those words, piercing like a blade to my very consciousness, shattering what I had left of a conscience, and I remember in a blind hatred seething in my breast once more for the normal ones, lucky enough to be born perfect, wonderful, those who's mothers had held and kissed them instead of pushing them away, casting them into a Hell of their own division. I staggered back, my eyes wide as I grabbed the mask from the ground, turning in disorientation and fleeing the only life I'd known, the only people ever to accept me for the grotesque being I was, even if it was only in exploitation.

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Interlude: Learn to be Lonely

Child of the wilderness

Born into emptiness

Learn to be lonely

Learn to find your way in darkness

Who will be there for you

Comfort and care for you

Learn to be lonely

Learn to be your one companion

Never dreamed out in the world

There are arms to hold you

You've always known

Your heart was on its own

So laugh in your loneliness

Child of the wilderness

Learn to be lonely

Learn how to love life that is lived alone

Learn to be lonely

Learn how to love life that is lived alone

Alone.

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Act II: Think of Me

Aiden's attention snapped upwards as he heard the music of the operahouse waft down to him through the building's hidden passages. That accursed soprano, she had no range, and he could only wager she was prancing about on the stage like a showing peacock. No talent, that one, simply arias devoid of anything even close to melody or emotion. Shaking his head, Aiden rose from his desk, his long black cape swirling dramatically as he leapt up onto the staircase that brought him up into the auditorium's balconies, no one in sight, as always, and padded slowly into box five, his favoured place to sit, where the acoustics appealed to him. He sneered in disapproval of the Spanish femme wolf, wrinkling his nose in distaste as a hiss of disdain passed his teeth.

The prima donna was having another of her 'episodes' as the company liked to call them, the Spaniard stormed off haughtily, only to be followed by her entourage of bumbling dolts, Aiden thought, leaning in his seat, leaning his porcelain enclosed cheek into the palm of his padded hand, eyes half lidding as he watched the rehearsal fall to pieces, shaking his head. The glint of light to paper caught his eye, and he leaned down in his chair, scooping the sealed envelope up between his claws and opening it as he casually listened to the squabbling below.

Dearest Opera Ghost,

I assume you know by know of my retirement from the management of

this theatre. The new managers are of a new stock, fiesty and shrewd,

my suggestion is for you to show yourself in some form in order for

Box No. 5 to be kept open, and your salary of 20, 000 francs to be paid

by these skeptical young men each month.

Fondest wishes,

-Mr. Girard-

New management, Aiden mused, a dark smile crawling over his masked features as he lifted his attention back to the stage, where the prima donna had vanished, and they now quarelled over what would be done. His light green eyes rolled back a bit as a shake of his head accompanied a sigh, his head bowing into his paw as he closed his eyes. Just perfect, now that damned femme would have her way, spoiled and treated like a queen, pampered and cared for like a princess while everyone else was left with nothing. Aiden growled a little into his paw as he heard the new managers, a pair of light brown weasels, speak in skepticism of the chorus girl who the singing teacher proposed.

Aiden leaned back in his chair, waiting for the assault of an untrained voice upon his keen ears, sighing once more as he slumped back in his seat, arms folding over his eyes as he listened to the sounds of the young soprano's voice, sighing as he mused on how much better his own protege would have been, when a clarion sound pierced cleanly, perfectly, though his mind, his arms falling as he rose, claws gouging into the banister of the balcony, eyes wide as the girl he'd been coaching in silence sang. The young vixen threw herself into the aria heart and soul, tears even shimmering in her blue eyes as she sang, her beautiful maw opening and pronouncing each word perfectly, everything about it striking the company and Phantom as perfection.

"Think of me,

Think of me fondly when we've said goodbye.

Remember me,

Once in a while, please promise me you'll try.

When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free

If you ever find a moment,

Spare a thought for me.

We never said our love was evergreen,

Or as unchanging as the sea.

But if you can still remember,

Stop and think of me.

Think of all the things we've shared and seen,

Don't think about the way things might've been.

Think of me,

Think of me waking, silent and resigned,

Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind.

Recall those days,

Look back on all those times,

Think of the things we'll never do,

There will never be a day when I won't think of you."

The decision was made, Vixie would take the Spaniard's place. As he watched the performance from the rafters, boz five filled, Aiden felt his heart bound in his chest as he watched her, Vixie Shahyay, the loveliness of her voice filtering perfectly through his body, craving more, needing more, his green eyes hungering for it.

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Act III: The Angel of Music

Aiden clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw seizing a moment before he took off down the passages, towards Vixie's chambers, his long black cape soaring out behind him as he wound and slipped through many a nook and cranny, his tall, willowy form moving with near feline grace as he came to the one way mirror he'd installed in her room, his pale eyes searching for any sign of her.

Soon enough, she came, her gown from the opera billowing and tutting gently about her slender frame, the pale white of it contrasting the deep red of her fur as she started to change, under Aiden's ever watching eye. She stripped the corset from her slender frame, pulling on a rather plain looking dress overtop before shedding the puffed majesty of the skirt. Aiden watched, his heart beating deafeningly in his ears as he watched her, the object of his desires, musical and physical, his throat seizing momentarily as she shanged, catching a slight glimpse of thigh here, tail end there, chest, stomach, his eyes hungrily watching her. And then, her siren's voice rang clear and true, a question posed for Aiden's ears alone.

"Angel, my angel of music, are you with me?"

Aiden nodded, still invisible to her, and was about to speak when a knock came at the door. Hissing silently, he narrowed his eyes to slits, remaining behind the mirror as the young male otter entered the room, Vicomte Byrant, the new owner of the theatre. Handsome devil, Aiden thought to himself, we'll have to rid ourselves of him. His mouth locked in a silent sneer, he listened intermittently to Bryant and Vixie's exchange.

" Little Lotte thought, "Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or of shoes?" " crooned Bryant with a smile.

Turning, Vixie smiled prettily and replied, "Bryant!"

The otter continued with a smile of his own, "Or of riddles or frogs?"

Vixie let our a light giggle, "Those picnics in the attic."

The otter lightly reached out and stroked Vixie's long red locks from her shoulder, "Or of chocolates?"

Vixie closed her eyes with a smile, "Father playing the violin."

Bryant nodded handsomly, eyes sparkling, "As we read to each other, dark stories of the North."

Shaking her long red locks quietly, Vixie spoke once again, "No, "What I loved best," Lottie said, "was when I'm asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head." Smiling gently, she near sung the last phrase, closing her bright blue eyes.

Tilting his head, Bryant leaned in a little closer to Vixie, smiling, "You sang like an angel tonight."

A musing look passed over Vixie's lovely features as she leaned forwards, smile still there, but a little faded, "Father said "When I am in heaven, Child, I will send the angel of music to you." Well, father is dead, Raoul. And I have been visited by the angel of music."

With a solemn nod, Bryant replied, "Oh, no doubt of it. And now, we go to supper."

"No, Bryant, the Angel of Music is very strict!"

Chuckling, Bryant turned back to her, "Well, I shan't keep you up late."

"Bryant, no!"

"You must change. I'll order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lotte." Bryant smiled and closed the door behind him before Vixie had any chance to protest."

Aiden seized the chance as Vixie moved to lock the door from the inside, letting his manipulatively sensuous voice ring powerfully into the room from behind the mirror.

"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory. Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"

Starting violently, Vixie pulled herself up from her chair, her dress furling attractively about her ankles as she replied, "Angel, I hear you. Speak, I listen. Stay by my side, guide me. Angel my soul was weak, forgive me. Enter at last, Master."

Smiling quietly behind the mirror, Aiden kept his voice powerful and chastizing, though he could hardly mask the adoration in it, "Flattering child, you shall know me, see why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror, I am there, inside."

"Angel of music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory. Angel of music, hide no longer, come to me, strange angel." Came Vixie's reply as she approached the mirror, large eyes emboldened by the sonorous gift of her teacher's voice, her hand laying to the mirror just as Aiden pulled it back, revealing his tall, masked form to her, and offering his clawed hand for hers.

Bewitched by the strange power of Aiden's voice, dreamily she gave her small paw to him, where it was enclosed and she was slowly led down into the darkness of Aiden's many passages, the means of travel for the Phantom, the Opera Ghost, Aiden. Down through the catacombs of the master architect's design, down the dank, cold, lifeless realm of his imagination, where night springs eternal and music was revered as a way of life for the wolverine. His dark furred form moved ahead of Vixie, and he turned back now and again to assure she was alright. She stared in blank fascination at the mask that hid the wolverine's face from her view, wondering what strange, marvelous secret was housed there, beneath the porcelain.

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Act IV: Music of the Night

Aiden slowed his pace as they approached an underground lake, gesturing for Vixie to step into it, then, as she did, following and taking up the pole to push it along the surface. As he rowed, he started to sing quietly, his melancholy voice so sweetly manipulative that she couldn't help but be enrapt by it's bittersweet melody. As he sang, they approached the small island type refuge of the phantom, the wolverine gesturing gracefully out over the expanse of it all, gilded in gold and satin, velvet and incense. He looked down to her, his light green eyes only narrowly visible behind the mask, his black claws extended to indicate everything around them.

"I have brought you

to the seat of sweet music's throne,

to this kingdom where all must pay homage

to music...Music...

You have come here

for one purpose and one alone.

Since the moment

I first heard you sing

I have needed you with me

to serve me, to sing,

for my music, my music."

His expression grew a bit upset as he looked about the gilded beauty around him, thinking it to pale in comparison to the vixen before him. He slowly looked around, light catching the porcelain surface of his mask delicately as he let his voice rise again, it's power undisputable as he sighed the first phrase, his fingers slowly finding a niche upon the lovely vixen's hips as he sang, his eyes slowly closing as he crooned to her, words so full of feeling and symbolic meaning she could do nothing but drift upon their turbulent current.

"Night-time sharpens

Heightens each sensation . . .

Darkness, stirs and wakes imagination.

Silently the senses abandon their defenses

Helpless to resist the notes I write

For I composed the music of the night!

Slowly, gently

Night unfurls it's splendor.

Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender.

Hearing is believing, music is deceiving,

Hard as lightning, soft as candle light,

Dare you trust the music of the night...

Close your eyes,

For your eyes will only tell the truth,

And the truth isn't what you want to see.

In the dark it is easy to pretend

That the truth is what it ought to be...

Softly, Deafening,

Music shall caress you.

Hear it, Feel it,

Secretly possess you...

Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind,

In this darkness which you know you cannot fight,

The darkness of the music of the night...

Close your eyes, start a journey through a strange new world.

Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!

Close your eyes and let music set you free!

Only then can you belong to me...

Floating, falling

Sweet intoxication!

Touch me, trust me

Savor each sensation!

Let the dream begin,

Let your darker side give in

To the power of the music that I write,

The power of the music of the night!

You alone can make my song take flight,

Help me make the music of the night..."

As Vixie drifted off into slumber in his arms, he quietly lifted her into his embrace, carrying her gently to his bed and laying her down there, a small smile playing it's way over solemn features as Aiden gently pulled a tasseled cord, lowering a drapery of lace curtains down over the bed, quietly watching his angel sleep, his head giving a quiet tilt as he sighed, his fingers scraping the glossy surface of his mask before he turned from her, padding slowly over to his pipe organ, scribbling down a series of notes and tapping a key occasionally as he composed, waiting for Vixie to wake, feeling no need for sleep at the moment.

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Act V: Stranger than you dreampt it

Aiden worked long into the night on his music, drifting into a light sleep as Vixie woke, his eyes closed behind that mask, breath a shallow, fitful sound as he dozed. She approached quietly, bare paws soundless on the cool stone floor as she approached him, whispering under her breath as she did.

"I remember there was mist... Swirling mist upon a vast glassy lake, there were candles all around, and on the lake there was a boat, and in the boat there was a man." She slowly reached out for Aiden's face as she whispered again, her fingers trembling in curious terror as she touched the porcelain surface of the mask, "Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose is the face in the mask?"

Her fingers wrapped lightly around the edge of the mask, which hung an inch or so above his furred cheek, her grip tightening slightly as she saw his eyes opening and pulled back, taking the porcelain mask with her. Aiden woke instantly, his furred hand flying to his face, hiding it's deformation as he howled angrily, what Vixie could see of his face a contorted show of anger and resentment. He turned on her, pulling his paw back and showing off the sunken cheek and eye, his gaze fiery and flooded with resenting hatred as he shouted angrily, baring his sharp fangs as he cursed her, turning away as he ranted.

"Damn you! You little prying Pandora! You little demon! This is what you wanted to see? Curse you, you little lying Delilah! You little viper now you cannot ever be free. Damn you, curse you... Stranger than you dreamt it can you even dare to look, or bear to think of me this loathesome gargoyle who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven? Secretly, secretly...But Vixie... Fear can turn to love, you'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster, this repulsive carcass, who seems a beast but secretly dreams of beauty...Secretly, secretly... Oh, Vixie..."

He whirled on her then, stopping in mid motion as he saw the tears spilling in rivulets down her pretty face, love of her softening his heart as he hopelessly closed his eyes, green depths vanishing into darkness behind the mask as he took it gently from her and replaced it over his face, sighing quietly as he spoke to her once more, eyes opening as he longingly stared into her red furred face.

"Come, we must return, those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you."