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Quelle Beaute	By : ladyalexis Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 1380 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Part Three:
Lenita

And so, there I was again, standing in front of the Opera House, shivering against the cold wind that blew close to sundown. It had been nearly three months since I had last stood there, my eyes scanning over the dilapidated structure.

Nothing. Again.

I sighed deeply, amazed and saddened. I could not understand how anyone could let this beautiful construction worsen. Did anyone care?

Yes, I knew who built it. I need not look further than the Shah’s Palace for that answer. It had to be him, the mysterious man that wore the striking white mask, known to me only as Erik. The man, dare I say it, that so intrigued me that I risked my life to find under the cover of night, so, so long ago.

Has it really been that long? Nearly ten years. So much has happened.

As per Erik’s instruction, I was taken by the Daroga of Mazenderan, placed into a wagon, covered in a blanket and straw and moved in silence to the village where my brother resided with his three wives and five children. With papers in hand, the Daroga carefully explained his intentions and what he was to do. While elated that I had made an escape, he was still leery, until a rather large wad of money was placed into his hand for the inconvenience. Yes, that closed his mouth rather quickly.

My brother, to his blessing, inherited my father’s very distinct Persian features, while I inherited my mother’s soft Greek features. Mother and Father met while he, a farmer and merchant, encountered her, a Greek missionary, on her travels through Mazenderan. They fell in love, but of course it was strictly forbidden to marry, so they married outside Persia, and kept Mother covered to hide her fairer complexion, her soft brown eyes never giving away her true origin. How did I inherit my unusual blue eyes then, you ask? Ah, a gift from a Greek grandmother I never knew, or at least that is what Mother always told me.

It was my olive skin and blue eyes that so caught the eye of the Shah on a visit through the village many years later…

My parents had been dead only a few months and after moving to live with my brother, I had just arrived back in the square with one of my brother’s wives to help sell the vegetables. I was spotted, even at the young age of nineteen and immediately taken, without a word to anyone. Of course my brother knew what had happened as I was able to send correspondence to him within the next month, but it was all over for me. I was ruined. I accepted my fate and learned quickly over the ensuing two years how to handle myself, and stay on the good side of the Khanum.

Even then, I was not sure why the Khanum chose me to be the second gift for Erik, knowing I would die in the event. Perhaps she was jealous that the Shah had shown me so much favor, that in the two years since my arrival, he had yet taken me to his bed. But now that I am older, I feel it was something else……and most likely. Erik and I shared a glance.

It a dark night when he was summoned for the first time to the Khanum’s private chamber. I was seated with the other girls at the Khanum’s side when he came into the room. I had not been present at the first meeting at the balcony overlooking the Shah’s precious garden, but I had heard about it, for it is widely known how the eunuchs love to talk. Yet for all their outspoken tongues, I had to see for myself, this mysterious man that had enthralled the Khanum so greatly. His regal appearance, accented with a long, black cape and black gloves, gave such an air about him that I had to blink several times, wondering if my eyes were deceiving me.

But it was his voice.

His voice was like a song, carried on the wind. I found myself straining, inching close to the gauze curtain that separated us, just to get a closer listen. His white mask was unmistakable and I was curious as to the nature of it all, apparently, so was the Khanum.

She insisted he remove it once more.

He refused.

I almost choked. No one refused the Khanum, well, and lived to tell about it.

She insisted further. He again refused. She threatened to remove his manhood and place it in a small jar of brine. I cringed at the very thought of such a virile man being reduced to such a state.

I smirked when he asked her if a small jar could contain him, not so much for the smart retort as the Khanum’s shocked reaction. Fortunately, I was not seen doing this because of my veil or surely I would not be telling this story now.

Finally, in frustration, he removed his mask and threw it to the ground. The loud pitched squeals of panic from the other girls was so deafening that it even shocked Erik himself.

And then, it happened.

I did not scream. And he noticed. His eyes shot to me and for what seemed like a lifetime, but only a couple of seconds and our eyes locked. Our gaze was only broken by the Khanum ordering us all from the room. I had no choice but to leave, but I lingered as long as possible, all the while, his eyes not leaving mine.

The Khanum noticed, she missed nothing.

So, that is my only explanation for her sudden insistence that I be used in that fashion. My death sentence was set and while lying in my bed that night, I knew I had to find Erik, if only to warn him of her sick new game. My life was not important.

That night. I could go on about it for the rest of my days, but…I must move on.

I had been living under my brother’s roof as his wife for a year when another band of Greek missionaries came to the area. Brother sought them out and told them of our half-Greek heritage and his wish, as well as our parent’s wish that I be sent away for my education. Thus after that meeting I was taken by the missionaries, where I traveled with them for a time before being sponsored and sent here to Paris to live among a fine French family.

It was here, on this Parisian street, that I first saw the Opera House in all of its glory. Three years ago. My…such a long time. I admired it, still do really. I knew he built it, no proof really, it was just a feeling. Reports in the papers after the now infamous fire called him “Erik, The Opera Ghost”. Even after word came of his ‘death’, I knew he did not die. True genius such as this does not die.

So, as I stood, looking over the Opera House once more, I began to feel the stare of eyes upon me. I turned to my left, then to my right, but saw no one.

Then, I heard it, that voice carried on the wind.

“Lenita?”
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