Multifandom, but a Phantom of The Opera and Frankenstein enthusiast. Huge Jonathan Roxmouth fan (phan) and ballerina. (I mostly just reblog, some fics I reblog are 18+, so read at your own discretion.)
u know ppl always make it seem like Erik’s habit of talking in the third person is just meant to show his deep childishness underneath his violence and his genius, which it could partially be but Gaston leroux clearly had more in mind while writing poto and honestly every word choice in this book could be debated :/
in my honest opinion erik is a title to himself just as the phantom and the angel of music are, they r new identities for him to hide himself in!! erik even says that the name is “something he came to on accident” (not direct quote im sure) and since it’s not a French name one can assume he chose it to familiarize himself with christines Swedish nature. but even if u think erik has been this name for longer than he knew christine, which makes sense since daroga calls him by this name, he still chooses to introduce himself with this name when he begins to “court” christine and come at her as a man wanting to love her instead of an angel sent from heaven. in other words erik is who he wants christine to turn him into!! a real man!! an ordinary man who lives above ground!! no smokes and mirrors!!
“if u loved me i would be as gentle as a lamb” “if i am to be redeemed it will be because of your love!!” (again probably not direct quotes and the second one IS from the 1925 movie but i digest) all of them have a similar idea, that CHRISTine will redeem a sinner with her love and transform him from an undead corpse from hell into a holy new man!! see what I did there because christine represents a kind of Christ-like figure in her redemption and unwavering compassion to the damned and the sinful?? sorry if u read my other long post it probably feels repetitive
anyways, despite all of this talk abt how if she loved him he would be good, he is unable to really hold himself to this standard until the very end. him referring to himself in the third person shows this struggle to BECOME erik, to really encapsulate the gentle ORDINARY husband, he is unable to be erik in the way he wants to, at the end of the day even erik himself knows that his character of ordinary, husband erik is just that - a character
again im not good at getting my point across, i write all of my long insights in one sitting!!! my grammar is bad, i dont care
biggest suspension of disbelief in TV and movies is when the narrative tells you that a character is plain/ugly/unattractive but theyre all cast with hollywood actors in perfect hollywood makeup so the actual gap between them and the 'hot' characters is a spot the difference game.
20 000fr a month is baffling. That's roughly 101 600€. 115 8007 dollars. What the FUCK is he spending them on. Does he stuff his mattress with the bills?
TRULY
One little detail I liked in Kay's novel that explained this is that he uses that money to fund his solicitor's children's education. (The guy had, like, 10 kids or something insane, and Erik felt bad and wanted to help. Very cute.)
But otherwise..............candles?????? Armani????? Funko Pops? What are we doing with all that cash, Erik, truly?!
(Personally, I think he does it for the love of the game and because he DID live in deprivation for a long time when he was younger. He's probably like, "Screw it, I demand wealth and comfort and luxury at this point, I have EARNED it.")
YOU OFTEN KEPT AWAY from the busy areas of Villeneuve. Having spent years growing accustomed to life in the small town, you were graced with the time to explore, to set out and understand the village life. You had long ago learned to avoid the tavern—that pit where drunkards lingered until the sun broke the horizon, and rowdy toasts lasted until dawn—and you certainly knew to avoid the marketplace on Sunday mornings. You had no desire to waste your coin or spirit, exhausted by the shouting, the incessant trampling of boots, and the suffocating noise of a life you did not wish to lead—that defined this very town.
Instead, you sought refuge in Mr. Garrick's library, where three shelves brimmed with books of yellowing pages and cracked spines. The old man lived a solitary life, without a wife or children, spending his days in quiet anticipation—awaiting the rare occasion of a villager seeking a tome, or the more frequent delight of your arrival, which you always met with such profound contentment and insatiable curiosity.
He found great pleasure in discussing the novels you had finished, though he often marveled at your habits. Even after you had browsed every page thrice—or more, if you particularly favored a book—you would return with the same breathless enthusiasm, as if to search for an uncovered secret written in invisible ink along the margins, or within the very print itself.
If not in the library, the meadow of gentle flowers just past the edge of the woods called to you. It was in that very meadow, where the stalks swayed like a sea of pale ghosts, that your father—a genius (or madman, depending on whom you ask) inventor and merchant—had stood before you, his gaze lingering on the forest's dark edge, just before his final departure. He had promised you a treasure—not gold, nor silks, but a single, crimson rose he had heard whispered in the legends of the deeper forest. You smiled disbelievingly then, brushing his cheek with a hand that smelled of dried parchment and beeswax.
“I need no gifts, Father,” you had told him in earnest, your heart heavy with a premonition you could not name. “Only your safe return.”
He had laughed then, a jovial sound that warmed the air between you, placing a lingering kiss upon your head. He then promised his swift return, vowing to bring you no less than a single rose as a token of his journey. But the winter was a beast that knew no mercy, and the silence following his departure soon grew teeth. As days bled into weeks, time stretched thin. Life in the village stretched into a monotonous ache, punctuated only by your visits to Mr. Garrick, the quiet hours spent reading to your sheep before nightfall, or the rare, lingering afternoons when Raoul de Chagny appeared.
He would speak of his adventures beyond the meadows, his voice resonant and polished as he painted pictures of distant towns and grand horizons. He cared for you, truly—you saw it in the way his gaze followed you with a fierce, protective intensity, and the way he constantly brought gifts, as if he were trying to build a cage of comfort around you. He wanted to be your anchor, your provider, the hero who would sweep you off your feet, and away from this “dull” life.
Yet, your prized sheep, Lily, never seemed fond of him. While the rest of the flock would stir and gather at the rhythmic trot of his horse, anticipating the treats he often carried, Lily remained stubbornly aloof. She would huff, ears pinned back, watching him with a distrust that made you wonder—perhaps she sensed the steel beneath his velvet tone, or the way he looked at you not as a person, but as a prize he had yet to claim. But, there was no doubt that he at least cared for you. And right now, that was enough. Your poor sheep knew you needed company now more than ever.
Raoul de Chagny stood at the edge of your garden, his boots pristine against the damp earth, while you knelt among the sprouting pumpkins. He was, as usual, a whirlwind of tales, recounting his recent travels and the sprawling new manor his family had purchased by a lake.
“It was a gift,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar, polished lilt. “From my parents. To me.” He featured vaguely toward the horizon, as if he were already hanging curtains in a house you hadn't agreed to live in. “A sanctuary. A haven for the life that awaits me—of days in the sun, with a wife and children waiting by the hearth for my return.”
His tone was devastatingly tender. You didn't need to meet his eyes to know exactly how he was gazing at you. In his mind, the house was already built, the gardens flourished with your harvest, the children were already named, and you were the fixed, essential centerpiece of his domestic portrait.
“That sounds. . . ideal, Raoul,” you muttered, carefully turning a heavy pumpkin. You kept your gaze fixed on the soil, tracing the ridges of the fruit to avoid the weight of his attention.
“Ideal?” He chuckled, moving a step closer. “It sounds like peace, [Name]. It sounds like us.”
You wiped your dirt-stained hands on your apron, a nervous tension coiling in your chest. You had known each other since you were infants in a crib. He had known you as you grieved the death of a mother you never knew, as your father constantly left for business, leaving you in his family's care. He knew of the whispers of both your families, and the future they (his parents, more than your own) foretold for you both. In turn, you knew the depth of his devotion—how he had turned away every other lady—both in the village and beyond—to keep his eyes on you, just as he had scared off any suitors who whispered their share of admiration for you. He loved you with a fervor that felt more like a claim, the older you both grew. And yet, the thought of that manor by the lake, of being a fixture in his quiet, sun-drenched life, felt less like a haven and more like a gilded cage.
“I am simply uncertain, if I am built for the life you've painted,” you said, your voice soft but steady, finally meeting his gaze.
It puzzled you, when he smiled. Always, every time you returned his ambitions with uncertainty, he would smile that same charming, unshakeable smile that never quite reached his eyes. He spoke your name softly, almost like a plea for your understanding. “You're just afraid, my dear [Name]. You think you need to be out in the storm, but you don't. Not when I'm here.”
He stepped into your space, his hand lingering near your shoulder, “Have you given it any more thought? My propo—”
That's when you heard the familiar trot of your father's stallion riding in the distance. You beamed at the sight of him, relieved he had returned safely, as promised. Yet, there was something restless in the way he moved, an oddity in his demeanor. He was visibly exhausted; you expected no less. But in his eyes were the horrors of a journey he had only just escaped—if he had even escaped, to begin with. His horse, Maxim, carried with him a trunk brimming with treasure on both sides, his hooves wrapped in soiled bandages.
Raoul, who had been lingering by the garden gate, stepped forward, his expression hardening. “He appears to have seen a specter,” he muttered, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his belt-knife.
As your father dismounted, he stumbled, his movements jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. You rushed forward, ignoring Raoul’s caution, and caught him by the shoulders. He felt brittle, cold—his coat smelled of stagnant water and something metallic, like blood and old stone.
“Papa?” you whispered, heart sinking. “You’re home. You're safe.”
He turned to you, his eyes wide and unfocused. He fumbled in his coat, his trembling fingers producing a single, crimson rose. It was impossibly perfect, from its lush stem, all the way to its petals that glowed with a faint, unnatural luminescence against the dimness of the impending nightfall.
“I stole it,” he rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. “For you, my dear girl. I saw the castle, a tomb of marble and shadow, and I thought—she loves roses, she hasn't any in her dear garden, I will bring her a piece of this place—but I did not know. I did not know the price of its beauty.”
Raoul stepped closer, his voice tinged with skepticism. “What are you on about, sir? Who held you captive?”
Your father looked past him, his gaze on the dark line of the forest. “A man—or so he made me believe? In truth, he seemed more a beast, shackled by sin, dwelling in a palace that feeds on regret. Everything in that palace. . . It was all alive.”
He sounded breathless, recounting the wonders and the horrors that came with the palace. “This man—this beast of a man—he wore half a white, porcelain mask in an attempt to seal his deformities. But I could see it. I could see the parchment-like quality of his skin, the yellow slits he had for eyes, and the scars that littered, yet drew out from behind the mask.”
“He tore through the bushes. He demanded an explanation, for retribution. He demanded I pay for stealing what was most precious to him.”
Your father trembled like a leaf in your arms, stumbling as you guided him closer to the hearth of your fireplace. “He did not want gold, and he chastised me for not being content with the gifts he had already sent my way.”
“He did not want my life—not at first. He wanted a life for a life. A trade for a single, stolen blossom.” Your father released a quivering breath, “He demanded a life, for a rose.”
A shiver raced down your spine as you stared at the blood-red rose, which seemed to pulsate in your palm.
“He demands a life, my dear,” your father withheld a sob, clutching your arms so hard it bruised. “He knows where we live. He knows everything. He told me that if I did not return to pay the debt by the morrow, he would burn the whole village to the ground to reach me—to reach you.”
Raoul's face twisted into a sneer of indignation. “Let him come,” he barked, drawing his blade. “I shall carve the hide off this monster myself. You are safe here, sir; no beast of the woods shall touch a hair on her head while I draw a breath.”
But you weren't listening to his bravado. You glanced down at the rose, thriving and in full bloom, then at the dark, looming wall of trees that swallowed the sun. You felt a pull—a strange, magnetic hum in your chest that echoed the melody you dreamt of for nights. You knew, with a terrifying clarity, that steel could not kill this debt.
“Raoul, put that away,” you uttered, your voice sharper than intended. You turned to your father, your resolve hardening like winter ice. “You're being hunted because of me.”
“It is my burden, my fault that your life hangs by a thread.” Your words wavered with a haunting clarity, and with a ghost you could never seem to chase away, no matter your father's attempts at reassurance. “Mother died giving birth to me.”
“And I will not have this house painted in blood because of a flower. I will not be the reason you are to lose your life as she had.”
Swiftly, before either of them could move or even process your intent, you bounded out the door and onto the stallion—now bare of the treasure it had once carried. You leaned into Maxim's mane, your breath hitching as you whispered. “Take me back to this beast—to the palace. Please.”
Maxim did not wait for any further command; he was already pulling against the lead. He did not return because of a rider's hand, but because the castle had exhaled a low, dissonant chord—a minor key that shivered through the forest floor. It was a sound that pulled him toward the stone, a magnetic tether of melody that he could not ignore. He turned not by rein, but by the weight of the debt now etched into his very core. The moment the rose had been plucked from the cursed garden, the horse was no longer a creature of the meadows; he had become a courier, bound by the invisible ink of the Beast's ultimatum.
Behind you, muffled shouts of your father and the frantic, steel-edged cries of Raoul faded into the wind. Even your sheep, unsettled by the shift in the air, bleated in uneasy discord as you surged forward. You rode past the familiar meadows, past the line of trees you never dared to cross, and into the waiting shadows of the abyss.
AUTHOR SPEAKS !
hi everyone! i am genuinely so sorry that the chapter took me so long to publish. i've been severely preoccupied with school and other personal things. but! i hope this was worth the wait !!
if you haven't noticed yet, the story is mostly based on the 2014 retelling of beauty and the beast! it's a french production, and is genuinely my favorite version of the story <3 from the visuals, the costume design, the cinematography -- everything!
meanwhile, i'm hoping to better embody the 1990 limited series of phantom of the opera as my primary inspiration.
also, while i do agree with christine canonically ending up with raoul, in this au, raoul more so aligns with the character of gaston, although i'm trying to make this comparison a little subtler, and more true-to-raoul, rather than erasing his personality entirely in favor of gaston's.
if you have any further questions, or if you wish to be tagged for the next chapters, please do let me know in the replies :)
rest well, drink water, and i hope you all have a wonderful rest of your day!
Please block @\filthybonnet and @\filthy-bonnet, she’s EXTREMELY racist and transphobic, and very weirdly obsessed with shipping Ramin Karimloo and Sierra Boggess, who are both married to other people. It’s disgusting and parasocial.
Then I came back to Christine. She was waiting for me..."Erik here rose solemnly. Then he continued, but, as he spoke, he was overcome by all his former emotion and began to tremble like a leaf: "Yes, she was waiting for me... waiting for me erect and alive, a real, living bride... as she hoped to be saved..."
@ashyd-shy @mochi-does-art @damselentor @plushien @aureeeliaa @clemtimely @dorkestrabbitnerdaround (lmao i forgor your main sorry) @itsdesssuyo @artticfennec + open tagss
dailybridgerton
ellievsbear
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