my first fanfic
Well, kind of. This was inspired several years ago by my reading of Forsyth's "Phantom of Manhattan." I can credit Mr. Forsyth with jumpstarting my writing career by writing what is possibly the worst book I've ever read. It's been on ff.net for awhile, and I've greatly enjoyed getting comments like "OMG! Evil Raoul Lover! (throws mask)". Anyway, in the interest of consolidating my limited online presence (but really just in the hopes that someone who hasn't will read it, blah blah), here's...
Title: Kissing the Frog
Fandom: Phantom of the Opera
Pairing: Erik/Christine
Rating: G
Summary: Her father had told her the wrong stories.
Kissing the Frog
She had been raised on fairy tales. Her father, a simple and well-meaning man, had steeped her childhood in happy endings and virtuous knights, a land where love conquered all evil and touched the heart of even the most arrogant king. With him dead and his stories all she had left, it was little wonder that when it came time to make a decision, she chose the fairy tale: the mysterious castle, the enchanted suitor, and the chance to live in a dream world of music and fantasy forever. The vicomte slunk away in defeat, not understanding her choice but knowing somewhere inside that a mere sailor, aristocrat though he may be, was not enough for her romantic notions of the way the tale should end.
That was how it came to pass that she stood before her chosen lover, trembling and naïve, and granted him the status of hero in her romance with all the confidence she had in a life she believed in more than reality. She was the modest and yet courageous maiden, casting aside certainty and momentary security for something beyond herself; the opportunity to make flesh again a heart of stone, to save a soul with just the power of the touch of her lips on his. For that was all that was required of her. Her father's stories had told her so, and the world of opera had only confirmed it. She gave him her kiss with all the faith she had in its power, the knowledge that she had done right and that she herself had been elevated to the status of heroine by her action.
What occurred to her later, but only little by little, was that perhaps he had not read the same stories. Had not been brought up at his mother's knee with visions of gallant knights and white horses and rescued princesses as his religion. Did not, in point of fact, regard the two of them in the same roles as she did.
Fairy tales are not science, however, so this did not worry her at first. If he wanted a bit more than a kiss? Well, his was perhaps a special case, and required a little more work than some. The fact that she sometimes did not understand his desires was only natural, for she was above all else a virtuous maiden, and not expected to know such things. It was her duty to bring this lost soul back to the light in any way she could, for redemption was something she believed in with her whole heart.
She did not mind the other requests he made of her, either. It was no hardship for her to cook meals, or dust the furniture, or wash and mend his shirts. If at times he seemed displeased by her efforts, or if his requests took on a bit more commanding tone, it was because he was used to getting what he wanted from those who feared him. He would learn, in time, that he had no need to demand from her what was his. In the meantime, he was only getting used to her presence. A bachelor for so long would certainly require a period of adjustment, and it only made sense. Her satisfaction came from the knowledge that she had done good in the world.
It was going quite well, she thought a few weeks into their life together. I have saved him; I have rescued him from the curse placed on him so long ago. He sees a world now where his face matters not, and he may be like other men. I have kissed the frog, and he is grateful. And I am grateful, to have been the instrument of such a change. She felt so good about her deed, in fact, that she wanted to celebrate their victory, their happy-ever- after, and perhaps go out and buy a token of her appreciation for his letting her be part of such a beautiful story. Perhaps a nice meal that she could bring home, so that they could enjoy it together without her being already exhausted from the cooking of it. With these thoughts in mind, she donned a bonnet and cloak and looked for the door.
How odd, she thought after a few minutes. I could have sworn the door was here, but the latch does not seem to be in the right place. It's almost as if one is not supposed to find it. After a few minutes' search she located the mechanism, and arrived back with her purchases an hour later to a seemingly empty room.
"Did you have a good time?" His voice, as usual, startled her. Only because he was so quiet in his approach and she was constantly taken by surprise when he finally made his presence known.
She smiled up at him, as always looking for evidence of her transformation in his face, his eyes, his voice. Yes, she thought as she always did, there it is. That is me. That is what I did. "Yes, I did. I hope you did not miss me terribly."
"I always miss you, especially when you go without telling me where you are going," he answered. Or was that a demand she heard?
"Why, it's a surprise," she answered playfully.
"I'm not altogether fond of surprises," he replied patiently.
"You'll like this one. And if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, and then where's the point?"
He took hold of her upper arm, his fingers closing around it in gentle pressure. "Perhaps you had better tell me what the surprise is, and I will tell you whether I like it or not."
She frowned at the hand on her arm, confused. "What do you mean?" All of this made no sense to her.
His eyes closed briefly in what seemed to her to be impatience. "Must I be always spelling things out for you? I want to know where you were, and who you were with."
She stared at him in bewilderment. "I don't know what you're talking about." She offered up the parcels she had brought in: a bottle of champagne, a roast duck, and a new scarf she thought he might like. "I went out to get these. I thought it might be nice for us to have dinner-"
"We have food here," he replied, his voice a bit deeper now, more like the man she had thought she had erased with her kindness. "Is there something wrong with it?"
She shook her head. "No, I just thought-"
"From now on, you will come to me with any such 'thoughts' you may have and I will take care of them. I will take care of you, don't you believe that?"
"I do. And I want to take care of you, which is why-"
"Perhaps you think you will also take care of your little vicomte, as well? Or is it someone else, now?"
She shook her head, a bud of fear blossoming in the pit of her stomach such as she had not felt since - Oh, she realized desperately. Oh, it is he. He is back, but why? "I would not, I don't. I am yours, always, you know that."
He laughed harshly, still holding onto her arm but his grip tightening. "Am I to understand you still want me to believe the innocent maiden act? Please, Christine, that wore off long ago. It doesn't work like that; you can't fool me. I know how the world works. I have seen it. All this, the past weeks; is this how the virtuous live? In sin, with a monster like me, with the things you let me do to you?" He drew her close to him, his body pressed against hers, his divine voice brushing the hair near her ear. "Do innocent girls do the things you do? Do they enjoy them? Would they desire a monster such as I am?"
Tears started falling silently down her cheeks. "You're not a monster," she told him, trying to keep her voice firm. "You're not. I saved you from that, I did what I did for you, so you would--"
"Turn into a prince?" He moved slightly away from her and laughed again, louder now, finally understanding for the first time, her actions clear. "You thought this was one of your papa's stories? That I was a beast, or a frog, cursed by a malicious fairy and saved by your chaste kiss, your beauty? Are you that stupid? Those stories aren't real, my dear. You've been in the opera too long, it's warped your mind. Or perhaps you're just vain enough to think that you could redeem me from my life of crime and sin and hate. Is that it, my little prima donna?" He shook his head, his terrible mirth getting the better of him. "You're stuck now, aren't you? Here's a secret, my little ingénue: I'm the same man I was before, a murderer, a thief, by all accounts quite mad. Perhaps you should have listened to your friends. They might have rid you of these foolish notions you have of redemption and princes - but it's too late now, isn't it? You made your choice, and I, for one, am quite content with that." He laughed again as she stood staring at him in disbelief, and she comprehended that everything she thought she knew had been false, and she was trapped precisely as he had wanted her from the beginning. Knew, as he did, that she had fit into his script in a way he never had and never would fit into hers.
Her father had told her the wrong stories.
Title: Kissing the Frog
Fandom: Phantom of the Opera
Pairing: Erik/Christine
Rating: G
Summary: Her father had told her the wrong stories.
Kissing the Frog
She had been raised on fairy tales. Her father, a simple and well-meaning man, had steeped her childhood in happy endings and virtuous knights, a land where love conquered all evil and touched the heart of even the most arrogant king. With him dead and his stories all she had left, it was little wonder that when it came time to make a decision, she chose the fairy tale: the mysterious castle, the enchanted suitor, and the chance to live in a dream world of music and fantasy forever. The vicomte slunk away in defeat, not understanding her choice but knowing somewhere inside that a mere sailor, aristocrat though he may be, was not enough for her romantic notions of the way the tale should end.
That was how it came to pass that she stood before her chosen lover, trembling and naïve, and granted him the status of hero in her romance with all the confidence she had in a life she believed in more than reality. She was the modest and yet courageous maiden, casting aside certainty and momentary security for something beyond herself; the opportunity to make flesh again a heart of stone, to save a soul with just the power of the touch of her lips on his. For that was all that was required of her. Her father's stories had told her so, and the world of opera had only confirmed it. She gave him her kiss with all the faith she had in its power, the knowledge that she had done right and that she herself had been elevated to the status of heroine by her action.
What occurred to her later, but only little by little, was that perhaps he had not read the same stories. Had not been brought up at his mother's knee with visions of gallant knights and white horses and rescued princesses as his religion. Did not, in point of fact, regard the two of them in the same roles as she did.
Fairy tales are not science, however, so this did not worry her at first. If he wanted a bit more than a kiss? Well, his was perhaps a special case, and required a little more work than some. The fact that she sometimes did not understand his desires was only natural, for she was above all else a virtuous maiden, and not expected to know such things. It was her duty to bring this lost soul back to the light in any way she could, for redemption was something she believed in with her whole heart.
She did not mind the other requests he made of her, either. It was no hardship for her to cook meals, or dust the furniture, or wash and mend his shirts. If at times he seemed displeased by her efforts, or if his requests took on a bit more commanding tone, it was because he was used to getting what he wanted from those who feared him. He would learn, in time, that he had no need to demand from her what was his. In the meantime, he was only getting used to her presence. A bachelor for so long would certainly require a period of adjustment, and it only made sense. Her satisfaction came from the knowledge that she had done good in the world.
It was going quite well, she thought a few weeks into their life together. I have saved him; I have rescued him from the curse placed on him so long ago. He sees a world now where his face matters not, and he may be like other men. I have kissed the frog, and he is grateful. And I am grateful, to have been the instrument of such a change. She felt so good about her deed, in fact, that she wanted to celebrate their victory, their happy-ever- after, and perhaps go out and buy a token of her appreciation for his letting her be part of such a beautiful story. Perhaps a nice meal that she could bring home, so that they could enjoy it together without her being already exhausted from the cooking of it. With these thoughts in mind, she donned a bonnet and cloak and looked for the door.
How odd, she thought after a few minutes. I could have sworn the door was here, but the latch does not seem to be in the right place. It's almost as if one is not supposed to find it. After a few minutes' search she located the mechanism, and arrived back with her purchases an hour later to a seemingly empty room.
"Did you have a good time?" His voice, as usual, startled her. Only because he was so quiet in his approach and she was constantly taken by surprise when he finally made his presence known.
She smiled up at him, as always looking for evidence of her transformation in his face, his eyes, his voice. Yes, she thought as she always did, there it is. That is me. That is what I did. "Yes, I did. I hope you did not miss me terribly."
"I always miss you, especially when you go without telling me where you are going," he answered. Or was that a demand she heard?
"Why, it's a surprise," she answered playfully.
"I'm not altogether fond of surprises," he replied patiently.
"You'll like this one. And if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, and then where's the point?"
He took hold of her upper arm, his fingers closing around it in gentle pressure. "Perhaps you had better tell me what the surprise is, and I will tell you whether I like it or not."
She frowned at the hand on her arm, confused. "What do you mean?" All of this made no sense to her.
His eyes closed briefly in what seemed to her to be impatience. "Must I be always spelling things out for you? I want to know where you were, and who you were with."
She stared at him in bewilderment. "I don't know what you're talking about." She offered up the parcels she had brought in: a bottle of champagne, a roast duck, and a new scarf she thought he might like. "I went out to get these. I thought it might be nice for us to have dinner-"
"We have food here," he replied, his voice a bit deeper now, more like the man she had thought she had erased with her kindness. "Is there something wrong with it?"
She shook her head. "No, I just thought-"
"From now on, you will come to me with any such 'thoughts' you may have and I will take care of them. I will take care of you, don't you believe that?"
"I do. And I want to take care of you, which is why-"
"Perhaps you think you will also take care of your little vicomte, as well? Or is it someone else, now?"
She shook her head, a bud of fear blossoming in the pit of her stomach such as she had not felt since - Oh, she realized desperately. Oh, it is he. He is back, but why? "I would not, I don't. I am yours, always, you know that."
He laughed harshly, still holding onto her arm but his grip tightening. "Am I to understand you still want me to believe the innocent maiden act? Please, Christine, that wore off long ago. It doesn't work like that; you can't fool me. I know how the world works. I have seen it. All this, the past weeks; is this how the virtuous live? In sin, with a monster like me, with the things you let me do to you?" He drew her close to him, his body pressed against hers, his divine voice brushing the hair near her ear. "Do innocent girls do the things you do? Do they enjoy them? Would they desire a monster such as I am?"
Tears started falling silently down her cheeks. "You're not a monster," she told him, trying to keep her voice firm. "You're not. I saved you from that, I did what I did for you, so you would--"
"Turn into a prince?" He moved slightly away from her and laughed again, louder now, finally understanding for the first time, her actions clear. "You thought this was one of your papa's stories? That I was a beast, or a frog, cursed by a malicious fairy and saved by your chaste kiss, your beauty? Are you that stupid? Those stories aren't real, my dear. You've been in the opera too long, it's warped your mind. Or perhaps you're just vain enough to think that you could redeem me from my life of crime and sin and hate. Is that it, my little prima donna?" He shook his head, his terrible mirth getting the better of him. "You're stuck now, aren't you? Here's a secret, my little ingénue: I'm the same man I was before, a murderer, a thief, by all accounts quite mad. Perhaps you should have listened to your friends. They might have rid you of these foolish notions you have of redemption and princes - but it's too late now, isn't it? You made your choice, and I, for one, am quite content with that." He laughed again as she stood staring at him in disbelief, and she comprehended that everything she thought she knew had been false, and she was trapped precisely as he had wanted her from the beginning. Knew, as he did, that she had fit into his script in a way he never had and never would fit into hers.
Her father had told her the wrong stories.