The Art of Manipulation || Phantom of the Opera & Loki the God of Mischief ||

8. Genius Has Turned To Madness

A/N: Happy Phantom Of The Opera Day everyone and happy 28th anniversary to Phantom on Broadway!

Chapter Eight || Genius Has Turned To Madness

"It is extremely important that genius of this stature is never permitted to stray from the teachings of our Lord." ~ Phantom by Susan Kay

~*~

Outside, the moon shone brightly on Paris' dark streets. Late night drinkers and vagabonds filled the air with their straggled shouts and intoxicated laughter. The lone horse drawn carriages clopped down the stone roads.

Around midnight is when I heard one pair of footsteps standout amongst the others. These footsteps had a new found purpose, walking briskly and swiftly without tripping or stumbling, a hint of a bounce accompanying it. The confident pair of feet carried their body down to the cellars of the Opéra Populaire, easily finding his way without the need of any light to show him the many twists and turns. It wasn't long before Erik's form came through the door to his lair. He had in his arms an Everest of boxes and flowers; presents to bribe his house guest into giving him her heart. The assorted boxes were piled just right to balance out the weight and to give Erik space to see over the tops of them. They were properly packaged, properly bowed, so that his offering to Christine was without flaw; without flaw to compensate what Erik felt his life - and face - lacked. It was obvious that Erik believed the theory that, if it was wrapped just right, a person would accept a rotten egg if it was gifted to them.

Erik went into another bedroom, one he stopped using shortly after we had become friends. Setting the packages down, he paused momentarily to stare at the coffin he used to sleep in. I had only seen him sleep in it once. After that, and after I had inquired about it, he had locked that room and began sleeping in the bed Christine lies in now. He had told me he needed a change, and that the coffin was more comfortable for the dead than for the living. And so the swan bed became his new place for sleep. Not that he slept much anyways.

Erik looked away from his old bed, like the sight of the black coffin now disgusted him, like it reminded him exactly who he was: the dead, not the living. He staggered out of his old room, catching the corner of a table to steady himself before continuing on. He spent a few moments there to revive himself, his cloaked form hunched over the table like a wounded animal. He looked over his shoulder at the doorway to his other bedroom, the one that Christine was fast asleep in like Princess Aurora waiting for her Prince Charming to kiss her awake and break her spell. I could tell Erik thought this, too, from the way his body seemed to liven up; the thought of his redemption in the other room reminding him of his new purpose in life. Erik is the poor soul living under a deadly spell and Christine is the savior to wake him from it with a kiss. He only had to wait. So for now, he checked on his slumbering female guest and went back into the main area of his domain.

I hated to think how I am the evil villain in their fairy tale. But, as they say, every villain is a hero in their own story. And in my story, I am the one who had been emotionally injured, emotionally crippled and deformed. And Erik is my Prince Charming that will save me from the rags that chain me to the unfortunate dungeons of my mind. The bitter cold dungeons of my mind and heart that has turned me into its slave.

My prince hung up his cloak, shed his gloves, and placed himself at his organ, the throne to his kingdom named Far Far Away. He gathered up the song he had sung to his guest, the song titled The Music of the Night, and set it aside, spreading out a different set of papers. These are titled Don Juan Triumphant.

I remember the late nights he had spent on Don Juan. The cramped fingers, the aching back, and the tired, blurry eyes. But he couldn't rest. He needed to jot down the symphony that was constantly playing in his head.