Erik is NOT Dead (Phantom of the Opera one-shots)

The Twisted Ones

Author's Note:

Dear Readers,

This struck me today while I was listening to the Phantom of the Opera on audiobook. This will remain a one-shot for now but I am (at the moment, who know what my fickle imagination will move to next) very interested in expanding it into a book (if that is possible) once I'm done with The Friend Shop. So, please enjoy!

sarahlet2999

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The Twisted Ones

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Some say that Fae aren't real.

Others swear they have seen the fair folk dance on moonlit nights.

Yet more say they have been drawn into the woods in pursuit of songs.

I, Erik, the Opera Ghost, know the truth. They are a real as the blood that flows within my blue veins. No, I haven't seen them dancing. I need not see that pathetic sight. Neither have I felt the draw of their music in my ears for I produce music far finer then they can comprehend, peppered with the darkness of human touch.

No, I know they exist because their blood is within me.

I am one of the twisted ones. A half-breed that came out...wrong.

Be it scrambled genetics; be it a fae witch's curse – I came out wrong.

I am as hideous as they are beautiful and as powerful as they are carefree.

To this day, I don't know my father. My mother never spoke of him but later in life, I made quiet inquiries in the village where I was born. Apparently, he was a traveler who stopped at my grandparents' home. Mother fell quite in love, and the marriage was a quick one. He was there and gone (dead by the stories I heard but I don't believe it for a moment) before too many of the folk became superstitious. He left only me as proof he had ever set foot in the town.

As a child, I never knew. I had strange talents, and music seemed like life to me. My mother didn't know what to do for raising a twisted child is trial. We are a hideous bunch and magical to boot.

Fortunately for the unhappy human women (it is always the fairer sex that is saddled with raising us), we rarely make it past two days old. I believe I am the only one to have reached thirty years and surpassed it.

It was the gypsies that first realized what I was. They saw it in my face when they first beheld Death's Head. When I sang, it was confirmed for them. Most were terribly afraid of a twisted one who could live to such an age as six. But, an old crone taught me everything I needed to know.

I learned to disappear at will, to create fanciful or terrifying illusions, to throw my words, and to lure even the strongest of mind with my voice, already magnificent without the trace of magic. A voice that was truly gifted straight from my father.

It was a fae's voice.

In Persia, it made me a god. In Paris, it made me a ghost. In Christine's pretty head, it made me an angel.