𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎! i want to have a wife like everybody else and to take her out on sundays. i have invented a mask that makes me look like anybody. people will not even turn round in the streets. you will be the happiest of women. and we will sing, all by ourselves, till we swoon away with delight! you are crying! you are afraid of me! and yet i am not really wicked-! love me and you shall see! a̲l̲l̲ ̲i̲ ̲w̲a̲n̲t̲e̲d̲ ̲w̲a̲s̲ ̲t̲o̲ ̲b̲e̲ ̲l̲o̲v̲e̲d̲ ̲f̲o̲r̲ ̲m̲y̲s̲e̲l̲f̲!̲ if you loved me i should be as gentle as a lamb; and you could do anything with me that you pleased!
#MORTEVIVANTE is an affiliated, headcanon based 𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐊 of 𝙡𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙣𝙩ô𝙢𝙚 𝙙𝙚 𝙡'𝙤𝙥é𝙧𝙖, focusing on the content of the original leroux novel as well as aspects from the MazM rendition. with small details taken from susan kay, and a dusting of andrew lloyd webber, and plenty of original content.
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for all of his life, the architect's apprentice had often dreamed of angels.
not the white-winged perfect beings that others thought of, but the indescribable heralds of great catastrophes and change. the ones with one hundred-hundred wings, thousands of eyes, and the voices of countless lifetimes. sometimes, he likened himself to those things.
luciana had thought of him like that- an angel of sorts. with his mask, she said he could look like anything underneath. when he refused to take it off, she asked him why. he told her that he would make her eyes burn, like the angels. and he knew she didn't believe him. the answer held her curiosity at bay for a time- and that was enough.
when he saw the angel of death, he knew- who else wore a mask like his? this erik, so unhappy, had certainly lived quite a time unloved. and the architect's apprentice gave a soft sigh.
' you are grieving, ' he says, and his voice is the sound of heaven. erik had forgotten that he was wise beyond his years- even then. yes, he is grieving. ❝ i am grief. i am regret. i am a ghost in the shadows. ❞ he too, sounds like an angel.
the architect's reaction is concealed by the black mask he wore, but his gold eyes remain soft. he looks at his hands, calloused and sun kissed. then, he looks at the man before him. the ghost- yes, pallid from his time in the dark. the man before him is a phantom, a haunting yet to come. ' why do you grieve, angel? '
❝ erik is not an angel, ❞ but he is. he is an angel as much as he is a phantom- as much as he is a magician and an architect. a person unlike any other. someone who could have everything but the thing he wanted most. ❝ a ghost, yes, but never an angel. ❞
' but, there is someone who thinks of you as such. of me. luciana- '
❝ luciana ... erik lost luciana long ago. but not yet, not for you. erik knows this life. when i lived in the light. and i am so sorry that you will not stay in the light. ❞
the angel-phantom weeps, then, kneeling at the architect's feet. ❝ forgive me, forgive me, ❞ he cries, he tears the mask from his face- half damned and half holy- and waits.
the architect kneels, and he, too, takes off his mask. he is still young. he is more holy than he is damned. he does not bear the scars of mazandaran. he does not know more than the cruelty of the carnival. he has not met the khanum- he has not been saved by nadir, because he has not yet needed to be saved. ' it isn't your fault, ' the architect says. he studies the phantom's face without judgement. he has not learned to associate deformity with wickedness. he has not been tainted by that. not yet. erik wishes to believe his past self. that it is not his fault.
someone else said the same- christine, as she knelt with him, cried with him. when he set her free, he had understood- had brought back that lost part of him. the one that sat with him now. the part pulled from him by the faceless stars- ' there is nothing to forgive, angel. '
when the warmth flows through his chest, erik thinks he has learned what it feels like to forgive himself. at least, for a little while.
for that brief moment, he understands what christine finally saw in him.
erik, nineteen, is in his fourth year of apprenticeship to giovanni, a master architect in rome. he is also deeply in love with giovanni's beautiful daughter, luciana. for all the tragedy of his life, things aren't so bad. he still composes, but he focuses more on his other crafts. plus, he wants to make giovanni proud- the only father figure he's known.
withdrawn and cautious, but not manipulative, erik imagines building places full of light. sometimes, he thinks life is beautiful.
unlike the brooding phantom of the opera, erik the apprentice is shy and sweet. he's focused on his work, but he might actually talk to people and not be weird about it.
he hasn't lost all trust in others yet ... which is nice. and sad.
erik the phantom of the opera would love if his past self had been able to live that life in the light, so ... he might just let it happen.
Everything about inter-dimensional travel was strange--he'd heard as much from others in his own world who'd had the misfortune of stumbling into Cyberspace rifts. Time sort of lost its meaning when you shifted between the veils of worlds. Harpuia discovered quickly that that was exactly what had happened to him--he'd fallen asleep in his own world in early spring, and woken up in Spirale in the middle of autumn. Right at the start of a holiday they called Hallows Fes, here.
If he recalled correctly, back on his Earth, they called it Halloween. Or All Saint's Day, or All Souls Day, or Dia de los Muertos, or Samhain, or the Harvest Moon Festival--many cultures celebrated the handful of days at the end of October and the start of November.
But pumpkins...Harpuia had never seen a pumpkin before. Pumpkins required fertile soil, particular temperatures, and a lot of space to grow--and the war-scarred, blasted, irradiated landscape of Harpuia's Earth had precious little land that would support any life, muchless life this...persnickity.
Needless to say, when he'd been exploring the Golden Ward and happened upon a pumpkin-carving table--when he walked up right at the moment that a man in a mask stabbed a chef's knife into an orange gourd like someone out of a slasher movie, Harpuia was thrown for a bit of a loop.
erik is an artist as much as he is a musician. an architect, a magician, a man who had everything except for the one thing he wanted. his agony led him to create masterpieces beyond the imagination of those around him, and today seemed no different.
he wields his knife with a surgeon's precision, and like the great masters of the past, he envisions the gourd as if it was a piece of marble. something for him to draw from- to create what was already waiting within.
is that entirely necessary, asks a young man with dark hair- one who looks rather startled by the entire ordeal in the first place. erik pauses, looks at the pumpkin, and considers what he wishes to make from it. ❝ the details will come after the excess is removed, ❞ comes the reply.
erik decides, then, that he will sculpt an angel. put the pieces of the gourd together so that the light would be held outside, instead of within. he knows how quickly it will then rot left to the open air- but he, too, is a rotten angel, isn't he? an artist. someone fond of symbolism.
someone full of resentment and pain and holy, holy, holy music and devotion and ... how could anyone else understand? ❝ you may stay and watch if you wish it. ❞
Eiden's had been finishing his piece - a set of abs and pecs carved onto the the orange flesh, showing surprisingly detailed display. He's got other pumpkins by him there, seeming like he's aiming for a set.
Right now though, he's pretty inspired by his carving neighbours work - eager to see the ready work soon.
erik was adjusting, at least a little, to being out and about in the city. especially at this time, no one looked at him too closely with the mask, and he had to admit- it put his worries at ease. it gave him a chance to be just like anyone else.
so here he was, sleeves rolled up, carving pumpkins. more like sculpting- he'd picked a few of them and had been building something with various parts and pieces. like a true architect.
you've got such a nice touch, comes a voice from beside him. golden eyes fall upon a young man who ... certainly had made some interesting pumkins of his own. he's managed to give some pumpkins rather detailed abdominals and pectorals- as if he had perhaps studied the body rather closely. in what way, erik didn't really need to know. but, it was impressive nonetheless.
he steps to the side, revealing the various pieces of pumpkins put together to look like a phoenix, a few candles already placed within the hollowed body. ❝ it is not my best work- but these are the materials i have to use, so i suppose i shouldn't complain. ❞
he strikes a match and lights the candles, illuminating the detailed feathers of the bird's breast, the glow reflecting faintly through the carved eyes. ❝ but you also have skill. you know the human body well, it seems, to replicate parts of it here. ❞
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Desmond Sycamore was a man who often had bright ideas. The pull of adventure called to him, curious to know exactly what it was at the end of the road. Though he had ideas he could easily pat himself on the back for...
...Choosing to go to the damn desert not as Sycamore was quite honestly the worst idea he's had in a while. It was unbearably hot - to the point that Descole had chosen to strip himself of his cape the second he and this fellow masked stranger took one step inside the dungeon. It falls to the floor with grace, and it certainly feels much lighter. Not too much cooler, by any means - but it wasn't anything Descole wasn't used to.
The man addresses him, and Descole peers at him through his mask. Placing a hand on his hip, he only nods, as a short chuckle leaves his lips.
"Indeed."
"Pray tell, my friend- what is it you're for, exactly? The treasure promised at the end of this?"
this man is horridly over-dressed. erik watches him take off a rather heavy cloak. was he not used to exploring places like this? or was this simply theatrics- for he, too, wore a mask. a way to hide himself from the world, or to present to the world what they wanted to see. how fitting.
❝ i am simply curious, ❞ erik says, and this is true. there is not much that he can do with treasure, but there is plenty to do with experience. was that not what fueled creativity? in this new world, erik had to get used to starting from scratch. whatever he had written before was lost to the fifth cellar or worse. a part of him was almost saddened. the other part of him knew that there was a chance that the daroga had not listened to him.
that was the or worse. erik had not meant for his work to be heard by the public; he had not believed that they would wish to hear it. music was his comfort- he had always shared other skills of his with the world. he heft two grand palaces behind- he'd left artwork. he'd left a legacy for better or worse. but music? that was not for the rest of the world. he needed something that would be his alone. something that would never leave him lonely.
❝ about this place. there is a strange beauty here that i wish to understand. and you? what do you wish to find here? ❞
danny hadn't actually meant to bump into someone, nevertheless phase through them. it had been a total and complete accident, and he was really hoping that the embarrassed grimace he was currently sporting made that obvious. despite all his many abilities ( even locked away from him as they were now ), seeing through walls wasn't one of them, and he really hadn't expected someone to be on the other side of this one. it was dark outside, and he'd thought the street past the concrete garden divider had been deserted. just his luck, danny guessed, because now he was staring sheepishly up at a random guy who was—ancients, really tall.
and he really did feel bad. being phased through by an intangible ghost was an unpleasant experience at the best of times, and on some random barely-lit street in the middle of the night? yeah, that was probably even worse.
❝ Ummm... ❞ phantom's voice was awkward and weak, face bright green with the furious blush literally glowing from his cheeks. ❝ I'm, like... really sorry about that? ❞
nighttime had always suited erik, and thus it was in the nighttime that he found himself most eager to explore the city he had arrived in. distantly, he remembered something of the sorts from long ago. a fever dream that he eventually attributed to laudanum. but he is here now, and there is nothing he can do to change that.
a chill runs through his body. a voice speaks- a young man quite dead. erik blinks. it is not the strangest thing he has experienced, and he has experienced delusions far more terrifying than this. regardless of whether or not this ghost-boy was real, at the very least he seemed polite enough. ❝ what good does it do to apologize for the nature of a spirit? ❞ comes a voice- melodic and holy- from the unmoving lips of the angel of music. the angel of death. no, simply erik.
❝ you have done nothing wrong. i am uninjured. ❞ at least, as far as he knows. erik had long since become numb to injury. he had long since grown used to that sort of chill. christine had often said that he was cold as death- and how he had wished to be warm. for her, at least. his lack of injury does not make the encounter any less awkward, though. not of his own doing this time. he's not sure what to say- an uncharacteristic thing. but, what comfort could he offer to a spirit?
there is a melancholy that settles in him when he thinks of the fact that perhaps this spirit is still not quite aware that he has died. it is, after all, the ghost of a young man. one who could have had many years ahead of him. erik wonders what sort of tragedy cut his life short, but if nothing else, knows better than to ask of that. ❝ you seem more concerned than i. ❞
some wip eriks, phantom of the opera is public domain or something so i can do whatever i want. he's gone through like 50 redesigns on my end because of course he has. gotta say shoutout to mazm for long hair erik thats the way to go! anyway, i have the maskless versions of these too but theres a lot more to do ...
the heat of the desert was never enjoyable. while erik had his fair amount of experience traveling under harsh sunlight, mazandaran was more beautiful than it was anything else- oppressive summers aside ... and it was humid, rather than the awful drought of a desert. needless to say, erik had not worn the garb of the khanum's angel of death in quite a while- but it was better suited than the fine cloths associated with the opera ghost. still, the attire allowed him to lurk in the shadows if he so needed. as he was so very used to.
he had come to the desert castle on a whim- finding himself partnered with another man in a mask.
ah, the mystery was always better, wasn't it? similar to something he had once told his christine- but she was not here now. she would not come back. why was it that he had never learned to let go of the pain of the past?
it was better, he thought, to simply distract himself for a time. quiet the sound in his mind; the voices, without silencing the music. ❝ you, ❞ he begins, voice echoing in the chamber like it belonged to a god, or an angel- from everywhere but his own mouth ⎛ left uncovered by the black mask, lips unmoving ⎠ ❝ require a traveling companion to pass beyond those doors. ❞
golden eyes narrow slightly as he takes note of this man's attire. thoroughly unsuited for something like this- but neither of them could afford to be too picky with that. when he'd entered, the doors to the outside world had shut, leaving only one path forward. ❝ i think, monsieur, we likely share a common goal in this. ❞
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🎠 Don Quixote wasn't necessarily the most subtle of people. If she was curious then she asked. Which was a surprisingly useful flaw if you were just acting, because you could more openly play the part of someone silly enough to warrant a response to. Deep down, she was pretty curious about what he was wearing on his face.
"Pray tell, what a wondrous visage dost thou wear! Art thou a herald of merriment in some distant realm?" It was easier to assume that he wasn't using it to hide something. Or at the very least it was less of a rude thing to say.
for all of his life and beyond, there had been tales of a ghost. it began, of course, with his birth, to his unhappy mother who had yearned for a child- a child, not a monster! while there were few who could still recall the exact details or years in which it happened, there was an old priest who was willing to speak of it. at the time, he was a young man, a god loving and god fearing man as all good christians were, and he claimed, and still does, that there was something supernatural about the house where mademoiselle madaliene lived. no one had ever confirmed whether it was a ghost or an angel, but the old priest said for certain that mademoiselle madaliene had bore a child out of wedlock, and she had hidden that child out of shame. a pity, wasn't it?
then came tales from rome. the architect's daughter was well loved for her beauty, and the people in rome were much more inclined to answer questions of the nature of a ghost. perhaps twenty years ago, perhaps more, the master stonemason giovanni had taken in a masked boy. they said his name was erik- at least, that was what giovanni called him, and it could only be assumed that it was his name as he always responded. there were whispers of this 'erik' in persia as well, although his name was attributed with death, and in paris, that name was spoken by next to none.
the daroga, at least, spoke of him often enough. as a ghost, as a musician, but not like this. no, merriment was never spoken in the same breath as the name of the ghost. nor was his visage said to be wonderful. unless, of course, the comment was meant to be about the mask. so of course, such a comment would alarm anyone- certainly the ghost himself. ❝ a herald of merriment? ❞ what a peculiar notion! ❝ not quite, ❞
beneath the mask he can't help but grimace. a part of him wished to laugh at the absurdity of it all! merriment indeed! had it been merriment that he brought to the bal masque? merriment that brought down the chandelier? no, erik had been a herald of death from the start. ❝ how innocent of a thought. perhaps i should be flattered. ❞
❛ we'll just have to make do. ❜
❛ come on, it'll be fun. ❜
❛ wait, where are we going? ❜
❛ you can't be here. go now! ❜
❛ it's just a dream, a stupid dream. ❜
❛ don't be afraid. i'm a friend. ❜
❛ i can't stand up. what should i do? ❜
❛ now listen, i'l tell you what to do. if you stay here, they'll find you. i'll distract them while you get away. ❜
❛ you have no choice if you want to survive here ... and save your parents, too. ❜
❛ why do i need a weakling like you? ❜
❛ trembling, aren't you? still, i'm impressed you made it this far. ❜
❛ what a pain. you're gonna pay for this. ❜
❛ keep your wits about you. if you need anything, ask me. ❜
❛ hey, are you okay? don't fall apart on me. ❜
❛ listen to me. i'll promise i'll save you. ❜
❛ what did you expect after all that rain? ❜
❛ i'm gonna get there someday. i'll get out of here for sure. ❜
❛ i was just coming to wake you up, look! ❜
❛ what should i do? he'll die! ❜
❛ what's so funny? wipe off that smile. ❜
❛ don't do anything stupid until i get down there. ❜
❛ you see, someone i really care about is badly hurt. i've got to go right now. ❜
❛ this is our little secret. if you tell anyone ... i'll do the same to you. ❜
❛ what are you going to do? he needs help. ❜
❛ becoming a sorcerer's apprentice is dangerous business. ❜
❛ well, getting there is one thing. getting back's the problem. ❜
❛ [name], i promise i'll be back. please don't die. ❜
❛ don't you understand? it's love. ❜
❛ what took you so long? this is a total disaster! ❜
❛ what do you want? you can tell me. ❜
❛ what, you're still alive? ❜
❛ you still don't see it? she's played a trick on you. ❜
❛ since when do you talk that way? ❜
❛ you held this, and nothing happened to you? ❜
❛ i'd like to help you, but there's nothing i can do. it's one of our rules here. ❜
❛ but can't you even give me a hint? ❜
❛ everything that happens stays inside you ... even if you can't remember it. ❜
❛ see? you have a talent for this. ❜
❛ [name], i no longer blame you for what you did. but be sure to protect this girl. ❜
❛ will we meet again somewhere? ❜
he exists as this, now, a thousand-thousand wings and voices; a monster within the choirs of heaven. he is fire and grief and he should not be. not like this, not a messenger from the heavens, because he is a monster.
angels, he understands, are monsters.
how many mortals had burned when looking upon him? when he sang to them in those thousand-thousand voices (but some, of course, welcomed him- for the first time in his life- and he laughed, warm. how tragic to know that as this unspeakable horror, he was able to be loved.)
he sees his other self only once, for when he finds the mortal man, he cannot bring himself to look back. he knows that he is jealous. jealous of the man's smile, the music he offers to others. he hates those golden eyes and that face- sharp-featured, by far not the pinnacle of mortal beauty, but pleasant enough. the composer's face became softer when he played music, and the angel hated him.
erik, as he could have been if not for the cruelty of fate. erik, who would hold the world in his heart and gift the people every last bit of love in him. erik, who could have a life like anyone else. it's easy to imagine that this man could find love. he would live in a house in the light, with windows. he would have a gentle wife to go with him on sunday walks. and they would sing. they would be happy. (the angel weeps and rages and burns)
the angel-erik is placed upon a pedestal by the frightened people of the strange city. swarmed by monsters, the god-fearing, god-loving people yearned for an angel. and an angel he was! (be not afraid, soon, you will know no more pain. the kingdom of god is at hand) an angel who perhaps unknowingly returned true forms to the despairing monsters- an act of holy love.
⎛ and what of the composer? ⎠
even when the world is crashing down around him, there is music. in music, erik finds comfort, because it has been with him from the start. he remembers a life that he should've had- surrounded by admirers and kind words. a king among men in his own right. but music was his first love. merely a man like any other, he did not know of the angel's grief. he did not know that the angel believed things of his life that were untrue. for erik had no gentle wife; he certainly remembered someone he fancied, but he had quietly accepted that she was not here. he did, however, live in a house with real windows and doors- and he was not so lonely to say that he was unhappy. how could he be?
he did not know the life that the angel of music had. and he did not know that the angel had seen him. erik had never been a terribly religious man. he would not know to look for angels. his scripture was written upon parchment, and it was only through music that he felt that he could believe in something divine.
⎛ how does the story end, then? if the angel and the composer never truly meet? ⎠
the world is falling apart. monsters roam the streets. erik does not know how to kill, but the angel does. and the angel cannot kill him. in fact, the angel does not want him dead. not that he would know.
the angel understands that it is because the composer lives that he is like this. countless wings and holy voices. but the composer lives the life that the angel never had. the angel knows that if the composer dies, then he will fall from heaven, and he will not be like anyone else. he will return to the cursed flesh of his, hollowed out like the burnt remains of a cathedral. he will not be able to live in the light, not in that body. not with that sorrow.
the composer is only mortal, and it is in the nature of mortals to die. and as the angel expects, it is when the man draws his last breath that his wings rot, and he falls. he lays there, half damned, half holy, the last remnants of his wings wrapping around his body- as if that would be enough to shield him from the prying eyes of the world.
⎛ and then? what next? ⎠
he does not remember returning to the house in the light, but surely he has. for he wakes in an unfamiliar bed. there is a weight on his chest- ayesha, purring. the curtains are open and the sound of a bustling city greets him. he sits up, much to ayesha's dismay, and catches his reflection in a mirror. half damned, half holy. there's an ache in his back where his wings once were.
there is a mask upon the bedside table. his shield from the prying eyes of the world. soundlessly, he makes his way to the window and draws the curtains shut, resigning to the familiar misery. he has lived with it for so long, now. he does not know who he would be without it.
the tldr of subterfuge (for the last day of it) is biblical angel part 2 erik and erik if he was just like everyone else for part 1 and i post this as reference for the drabble im going to write (before midnight tonight)
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i'm at work for the evening but that won't stop me from writing like this for a starter (not event related because that's going to be a drabble) no cap for now!
