Title: Finalé
Rating: PG
Cast: Monsieur Reyer
Disclaimer: I own no-one from The Phantom Of The Opera and I am making no financial gain from the writing of this story.
Feedback: Yes please! .
Summary: The final night of the Opéra Populaire…seen through a very different pair of eyes.
Author's Notes: What can I say? Reyer has grown on me and thus I wondered what it might have been like for him on that fateful night at the Populaire. Written in the small hours of last night (oddly when I seem to do by best work on anything, lol! ) and intended to provide a little break from your boredom! Also, poor guy...he doesn't get much coverage.(
Hmmmm...
We'll have to remedy that!
Finalé
The shrill yells of icy terror, male and female whipped about his ears combined with the thundering footsteps of several heavily garbed audience members hurtling with all their strength towards the exits. The conductor watched with wide startled eyes as the monster held that poor child, Christine to him, locked in an obviously painful iron grip. Then quite suddenly, the monster lashed out and the eyes of all were fixed on a rope that disappeared at breakneck speed through the rafters…
Then came the cracking.
That terrible sound that would echo in his mind until his dying day.
Great chunks of plaster and concrete began to fall as hail from the ceiling above and Reyer, frozen to the spot in shock, snapped his gaze upward. What he saw made his blood run cold and his stomach leap into his throat.
'The chandelier!'
It all happened in a mere instant. Reyer was only vaguely aware of the cries and screams as the chandelier, alight and gleaming hurtled from her vigil above towards the ground, gathering speed as more and more of her supports broke, unravelled and gave way. With a gasp, the little conductor was wrenched from his hypnosis as someone bolted past and sent him slamming into the golden barrier between him and the pit. Gasping for breath, Reyer looked up and seeing the immense chandelier all but on top of him, snapped into action.
'GO!' he yelled urgently with all his breath to the orchestra below before throwing himself back over the rails towards the stalls and the floor only a few feet below. He landed with an almighty thud sprawled upon the crimson velveteen floor, and cried out in agony as he felt his leg break under him.
He heard the earth shattering thunderclap as the chandelier smashed finally into the stage. Shards of glass and crystal were strewn in all directions and Reyer watched with raw dismay as huge flames sprang to life all around him. He stared on as the scarlet tongues devoured the wood of the stage, the beauteous area that had once been his domain and slowly, the rank smell of burning velvet and metal melting into oblivion reached his nose and made his eyes water terribly. The amber heat scorched his skin from where he lay and combined with the excruciating pain in his leg, he felt resigned to what was quickly seeming inevitable.
His vision blurred from the sudden onset of smoke and heat, Reyer stared around him at the mass of people stumbling and shoving each other selfishly aside in their desperation to reach the exits before the flames barred their way. All around him, people were falling and being trampled as the crowd swamped the doorways, each battling furiously amidst screams and shouts. Then, a thought struck him.
He did not want to die.
Not now.
Not here.
Not like this.
Blinking away the cocktail of emotional and heat induced tears, Reyer clutched tightly to the seat above his head and slowly hoisted himself up, wincing, a sharp hiss of pain escaping his dry throat as he felt the bones splinter in his leg. Clinging with all his might to the seats, he gradually limped towards the exits, trying with all the will left in him to stay upright, his bad leg dragging fretfully behind him. As he went, he felt women and men jostle past him, all the while knocking into him, their cares, manners and upper class etiquette blown to pieces. He could feel the searing heat of the flames only a little way behind him. Their demonic purpose catching up with the damned crowds.
Finally, he reached the doors of the auditorium. Blissful relief swept over him as he stumbled out into the corridors, the crowds no better, but more dispersed. Then, as sharp and swift as a dagger piercing his heart, he realised he would likely never make it down the Grande Escalier alive. What with the surging crowds, the overpowering heat and his leg in the state it was . . . he shook his resolve. He would try. After all, he had reached the corridors still whole. Swallowing his final thoughts away and straining to thrust all awareness of the pain in his leg from his mind, Reyer abandoned all care and forced himself through the crowds, not caring if he was shoved or bruised or even bled in his endeavour. One thing was on his mind.
He must get out.
All too soon, he was confronted with the Grande Escalier. Knowing he had mere seconds to get going before he was pushed, Reyer sent up a quick prayer, focused all his strength on his good leg and strode forward, his sweaty palms slipping upon the marble banister but somehow keeping their grasp. Never had the Escalier seemed so high, nor had it ever seemed to possess as many steps as it had that night.
At last, Reyer caught the sweet scent of fresh air. It cleared his head and unfogged his senses, enabling him to see properly once more. The night air had never smelt so beautiful and the thought of it urged him on in ecstasy.
How he managed it, Reyer would never understand, nor did he care to ever know. All he knew was that with no warning, he was out. The gentle breeze whipped about him, cooling the rivers of perspiration that still flooded in plentiful streams down his pallid face. Finally, overcome by a wave of emotion and the torturous onslaught of his broken leg, he collapsed panting onto a nearby bench and stared, unbelieving and aghast at the blazing building behind him.
The flames were gorging themselves now. Their cardinal majesty overpowering the once proud architecture of the Opéra Populaire and feasting upon her alabaster and golden flesh. His eyes roved upwards and with a gasp, they settled upon the roof. The statues were illuminating by the background of the inferno, each window robbed of its glass and spewing out the blistering tongues of death.
A tear rolled down his cheek as he swallowed. That was it he supposed. He was ruined.
But that was not what grieved him most.
Reyer watched as upon the roof, the wing of an angel, splintered and cracked with the intense heat finally gave way and fell into the river of hell swirling about her feet.
Never again would they build such a magnificent structure. Nothing could rival the Populaire. With the faintest glimmer of joy inside his darkened heart, Reyer remembered the fabulous Masquerade they had presented to the masses only mere months ago. Such an event was only suitable and at home in the Populaire. Yet now ... her perfection had been destroyed beyond all comprehension. Never to be restored from the ashes.
If he had had the will, Reyer would have laughed at those battling against the fire, trying in quell it with torrents of water. Didn't they realise all their efforts were in vain? And even if someone ever cared enough to restore her to her original beauty, she would never own the soul she once had.
He had been her soul.
Her very essence.
The "monster" had been the Opéra Populaire.
He had seen it in his eyes as soon as that mask had been torn, revealing his dread visage. In his eyes, Reyer had seen the life and spark flicker and die. He could not explain, but he realised now. With the death of the bricks and mortar, he finally understood.
What the "monster", the "Opera Ghost"...
What that man…had given them, had not only been music.
He had freely gifted himself.
His very soul.
Reyer sighed deeply and finally let the tears overcome him. As they spilled relentlessly down his face, drenching his singed tuxedo Monsieur Reyer uttered one phrase. However, he wasn't aware of even saying it…even deciding to say it; until the words had left his lips.
'Goodbye, O.G and thank you ... for everything.'