Phantom of the Opera The Lost Narrative of The Persian

I shall retell everything that happened as far as I can remember, the way that I came upon this place does not matter, nor was my business to be there, all that mattered is that I simply _had_ found this place.

It was in my search of the daroga's old home at the Rue de Rivoli that I found something Gaston Leroux never spoke of. This very special piece almost escaped my eye as it was underneath a multitude of papers, but thankfully due to one very clumsy moment, and one stubbed toe, the tower was knocked down in a glorious fall. Looking through the old documents, my eyes widened in surprise when I found a memoir of the departed man, a note that I do not believe even Monsieur Leroux saw. It was one last account, one last memory of the Persian before his death, along with a note addressed to the man himself, I shall recite what was written for you the best that I am capable of.

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_The Lost Narrative of The Persian_

I am writing this after the horrible incidents of the Opera Garnier: the kidnapping of Mademoiselle Daaé, the descent of the Vicomte de Chagny and myself to both madness and the monster's lair. Although, thinking on what I was told by Erik, they are now the Count and Countess, and may they be blessed for the happiness they have! It does tear at my old heart to know the pain Erik went through to give them that pleasure though, I still have his story fresh in my mind, it was the very reason I went to the opera house. Erik told me everything, the goodness of the Countess, how she allowed him one moment of pure joy, one that he had never known from even his own mother, but I did not forget his other words; that he was to die soon of his loving heart.

I returned to the Opera Garnier, my own soul heavy with the task I had to complete. Erik had never asked it of me, did not have me make any promises to him, but I felt that it was something that I owed to him. He may have become a monster, but even under his horrible visage was a human that once treated me as a companion. I saved his life once, and from there he became my personal objective when I left (or perhaps I should say was thrown out of) my home to become a member of France, it was now time for me to end my self-appointment over him.

I was careful to enter the Opera House over by the Rue de Scribe, lest I wished a stray ballerina or stage hand to recognize me. I was still a much sought after figure in the affairs of the Phantom.

It wasn't long before I was in the back of the Opera Garnier, surrounded by old props and sceneries from long forgotten plays. Looking around I swore under my breath as I realized they had moved the old scene piece from the Roi de Lahore. There were only two entrances that I knew of Erik's, and to go through the other would mean reliving that night of horror in the torture chamber.

I made a last desperate attempt, any sign that my weary eyes might catch, to locate the place of the trap door, but my search was fruitless as another swear left my lips.

Probing around the dressing rooms of the female singers and dancers was not something I wanted to be caught doing, especially in the room of their old diva. Yet, I swore to myself that I would do this, for Erik, for the friend I once had many years ago in Persia. How much he had changed from when I first met him. He had grown from an intelligent, mystifying, young boy that could do anything within his will, to a man that seemed even older than myself. But the intelligence had twisted his mind, his knowledge and hope combined blinded him from accepting the basic human truth.

It is hard for man to accept and be kind to that which is different.

I slipped as quietly as I could into the lead diva's dressing room and shut the door with the lightest of clicks, praying silently I would not be heard. The smell of perfumes and powder entered my lungs as soon as I took a gulp of air that I had not breathed through that excruciating minute of silence into this room.

I ignored all around me as my eyes rested upon my last entrance to Erik's underground kingdom and tomb:

The mirror.

Damn all these mirrors! From the Shah's playground to his own home, they always seemed to be Erik's favorite toy, as much as he loathed to actually look into one, and he mastered every trick possible with them, even creating a few of his own.

I reached up around the mirror to touch the familiar latch that would open the pathway. The mirror began its sliding motion that it was set to, but just as soon as it had started it also stopped. The mechanism was jammed. Bitterly, I pushed with all the strength I could to make the artificial door give way.

Both thankfully and sadly it did, but it was with a loud thud that I the crashed onto stone floor behind it. I recovered from the floor and turned around just as the mirror was going back to its original position, causing me to be enveloped in darkness.

Luckily, I was prepared for this and reach into my waistcoat pocket, pulling out a rather adequate sized candle and match. I struck the match against my shoe and lit my small light source, it wouldn't be much, but it would be enough for me to avoid any areas of danger in the floor.

I walked the path of that dark, lonely corridor, my footsteps echoing solemnly in a foreboding sound, and though I knew there was no more danger, I still could not cease the shudder that came from my body to my labored breath.

The only other noise accompanying my steps was the small squeak or scratching of paws as a rat scampered away from my light, seeking refuge in the everlasting dark.

I knew the safe way to the aboveground from Erik's lair, but the way down…

I fell. No, not fell, I _plummeted_ through the floor into the familiar chamber where I had nearly lost my mind and life. In my anxiousness to reach the underground home, I had miscalculated the placing of the trap flooring.

My candle's flame died from landing on the stone floor while the muscles and bones within me screamed, this pattern of hitting the floor needed to stop.

For a moment I did not move, but rather put my cheek to the cold stone. One time in my life I was a police chief in Persia, a vast home full of intriguing artifacts, my name was something of fear in some circles, and a majority of women whom I would never take would throw themselves at my feet. Now, I was lying belly down, palms flattened and scraped, on a dirty floor five levels below any civilization…

And it was pitch black.

Panic flooded me, I was trapped in the torture chamber, no one knew where I was, only the Compte de Chagny knew this route, and if I was correct that young boy would never think to set foot in this place again.

I shut my eyes, not that the darkness of my mind was any better than the darkness surrounding me. There were a number of ways I could die here: starvation for one, the silence would drive me to madness which would lead me to suicide, and the stray rats were not frightened to attack a weak man. Maybe de Chagny's pistol was still in this room, it would serve me a fast and merciful death if there was one bullet left.

No! I shook my head, slammed my fist and berated myself, a few minutes and my original fear of this room was already taking me over! Calm, I needed to calm my head and think clearly.

Sitting up, I considered the room. A door existed from Erik's home, but to open it required a key to the side opposite me. The other way was through the trap door in the chamber-

The barrels! The water! I could hear the light, gentle sounds of moving water!

I crawled along the floor, wincing slightly as the cuts in my hands scratched the surface beneath me. Yes, yes! The trap door to the room of gunpowder barrels was still open! I lowered myself slowly along the steps, readying myself for the probable swim without light. It was a surprise when I did not find the large amount of water that had been on there before, but instead only a few inches. Just as it had been filled with water that night, it had now been drained.

I was careful to not trip again as I groped about for the other set of steps, which thankfully I found faster than any of the other progress I had made. I climbed them slowly. Soon, in a matter of seconds, I would be rising into Erik's kingdom. He said he was going to die, he said it would be soon.

I was not just entering a kingdom of music, but a tomb of misery.

I pushed upwards, hearing the satisfying rumble of stone moving and dust falling through the cracks. A breath entered me and stayed a moment longer than needed as I lifted myself up from the ceiling on one room, to the floor of another.

Light.

There was light, a few gas lamps were running low, but they were enough to allow me vision. I surveyed the Louis-Phillipe room. Nothing was out of place: books were on the shelf, papers were neatly piled on his desk, and blank music sheets sat at his organ.

It was looking over at his organ that something caught my eye, there was an envelope with my title on it. I felt as if I were in a dream as my feet carried me to it, and my hands of their own power picked up and opened the envelope, a single letter nestled in it.

Before I could read it, my eyes darted to the drape covering Erik's room. I had no question in my mind that he lay in there at this precise moment, his last breath already been taken. I became aware of a strange aroma in the air. It did not smell of a corpse, but it was a scent of flowers and spices. Erik took every precaution before his death.

My eyes drifted back to the yellow paper in front of me. It was not in red ink, this he had written in a grayish black. I began to read the note.

_Daroga, you old fool, why do you return to this desolate place? Yes, dear friend, I knew you would come, you would never let it down from yourself if you did not come to make one last check on your charge… Did you have Darius bring you here, I wonder? No, you have probably spared him of coming to something that I've no doubt still brings a glimmer of fear into your eyes. He has been a good servant to you, I hope, though I would say if any of the loyalty you showed me is within him, then I need not worry about how you live._

The letters in his handwriting began to turn more precarious, and it looked as if he had hastened in his note.

_I fear that I am to die within a few hours. I have already written my final note to Christine, the good, dear child she is, I ask that you not touch it for she will find the paper herself. Do not look in my room Daroga, I have decided to find my eternal sleep uncovered. After all, are we not to die the way we were born? Defenseless, weak in body, swaddled in the barest of cloths for warmth, but our face uncovered so that we might take the life giving air._

_I can hear the songs now, Daroga, my requiem has already begun. Perhaps my dark soul won't suffer the damnation I've had on this earth. Perhaps God will once take pity on me and grant me the joy I never had here, perhaps…_

My eyes widened in alertness as I read the next part, something I never expected to see was written.

_Amin, you have lived up to your name far more times than I have ever needed or even wanted. You have been the cause of a few of my problems and yet you have also saved me. Keep a dead man's wish that you stay the same damn way as you have been since I first met you._

I wanted to cry. Never, not since the day we had met, had Erik ever addressed me by my birth name, but in his last few moments, he decided to be the true friend I once had.

_Goodbye, Amin, I can feel what little energy I had is leaving me swiftly. Stay from my room Amin, I wish to have the only eyes to see me as I am now to be Christine's. I can say she will find her Angel with a smile on his face, and even though the soul has lifted, there will still be a hint to what glory I once held to her. _

_Goodbye, Amin! The music grows louder now, and you know I am not one to resist hearing such a marvelous piece…_

I stumbled back till I felt my legs hitting the aged couch that belonged to his mother, to which I gladly landed onto. My face fell into my wrinkled, slightly bloodied hands and I wept. I shakily withdrew a handkerchief from my pocket and dabbed at my wet face, but it did no good, the pain for my friend was too much. I stood up on weak legs, looking toward the entrance to his room.

It was just as he said, I could see the black mask had been discarded on the floor, dropped as if a meaningless object. I walked slowly to it, and fell to my knees in front of the cold item, black as night and holding a formidable presence to it. I reached out slowly, almost afraid to take it into my hands, let alone touch it. My heart thudded in my chest as my fingers did finally curl around the mask, and lifted it into the air, my legs gaining the motivation to rise as well.

This would not be left here, I would not let the one true sign of his existence left to be found by a commoner. As Erik had said, he did not have joy in his life, and I would not let him be mocked in his death. I folded the note up and placed it into my waistcoat pocket, making sure it would not slip out.

It was again with a heavy weight on me that I moved to the opening of his home, taking a small torch from the wall and lighting it. I leaned against the doorway a moment, taking in what I had found. Erik had said I lived up to my name, and I would not change his opinion of me now, I would not invade the privacy and sanctimony of his coffin.

I took one last, sorrowful look at what I knew I would never see again. Once I left the Opera Garnier this day, I would never again seek out its business or those who were associated with it.

I made my final steps out of his home, whispering my last words to him.

_Goodbye, my friend. Goodbye, Erik._

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As we all know, it was later written in the paper what became of Erik. The Opera Ghost, the Phantom, died the night he was shown love. Erik, the physical being of the Angel of Music, died when his love became too much. If there is anything we are to remember of him, it is the love he stood for, the pure love that drove his heart and soul to create music. If only, if only the world had been more kind upon him, perhaps then Erik may have found a long lasting love and his story would have been one of triumph and joy, perhaps.

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_I want to note I own nothing of The Phantom of the Opera, I am just a humble phan who likes to write on the unthought aspects of the story._


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