Snow and Ashes
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its renditions and sequels
Helena Fletcher pinched her pale cheeks several times before small rose buds of pink appeared on her skin. her Cold hands reached for a pair of simple pearl earrings on her vanity as Helena's maid pinned her hair into an intricate knot above her head. Tonight was going to be the most extravagant evening since her arrival in Paris two weeks prior.
"Mademoiselle is... excited about the opera, no?" her maid asked giving her a shy smile, her eyes downcast to the rose carpet.
"Oh Marie, I'd bring ye along if I could," replied Helena knowing very well how much her maid wanted to see the grandeur that was the Paris Opera.
"Do not fret over it, Mademoiselle, you shall tell me all about it, oui?" Marie suggested trying to put on a smile.
"Every little detail," promised Helena clasping her friend's hand, "I bet Mademoiselle Christine will be just lovely in comparison to Madame Carlotta's horrid performance!"
Marie let out a small gasp before erupting into a fit of giggles, her mousy curls falling over her eyes.
"You are quite bold, Mademoiselle! Le phantom will not think of attacking one such as you," Marie proclaimed before giving the ties on Helena's corset another yank.
"Oh Marie, the opera ghost only attacks pretty young dancers, I am quite safe," sighed Helena looking into the mirror above her vanity. A plain face stared back, wide eyes, dark blonde strands lacking all natural curl, and a defiant brow.
Marie gave a sigh while looking at her friend, whose plain appearance only covered what was a passionate soul, yearning always for something that wasn't there. Was it beauty she desired, a handsome suitor to be at her side, or was it something deeper, closer to the heart? Marie gave her head a gentle shake for she was never one for thinking about such serious matters and returned to her yanking at the ties of the pink corset. Helena gasped as the sharp pain in her waist grew stronger, taking all the breath from her lungs.
"Marie, is it fashionable to be blue in Paris?" she pondered before sucking in a bit more of sweet air, her lungs aching. Marie gave the strings one more yank before tying them into a small bow.
"Zere shall be no worrying, for you're turning violet!" The two young women shared a laugh as they continued to get ready for the night of Don Juan.
As Helena's coach rattled down the Paris streets, her chest constricted with nerves, her hands growing terribly cold. The woman across from her seemed quite at peace with the coming event, used to grand operas and galas, a city woman to the core. Aunt Adelaide was no dainty creature, her weight shifting the coach ever so slightly. The top of her head brushed the roof, purple feather plume drooping in front of her eyes. This reminded Helena that she didn't inherit her father's towering height at all, her small frame causing her to look up at Adelaide to speak.
"Aunt Addie," Helena started, looking out of the coach window to see a line of tall guards surrounding the glowing opera house, "is it common place for armed guards to visit the opera?"
"Hmm, dear girl," Adelaide responded leaning over to gaze through the curtains, "how curious, indeed, but don't they look dashing?" Adelaide's fleshy cheeks grew pink at the prospect of finding a beau in uniform, her old heart pounding. Helena bit back a sigh as she watched her aunt eye the men with eager eyes for although Adelaide Fletcher was charming and wealthy, she was also a rather large spinster. Her aunt was under a sad illusion that she wasn't fifty-seven years of age but only five and twenty. Helena smoothed out her dark blue gown as the coach rattled to a halt, her face now one of absolute delight. She pulled her fur cape around her slight shoulders and onto the cobbled lane, her face breaking out into a Cheshire grin.
"Oh Aunt Addie, I'm feeling like a wee lass on Christmas morn again," she sighed clasping her hands in front of her chest, and gazing at the golden structure ahead, snow falling gently on her nose.
"Now girl," reprimanded Adelaide lumbering over to her excited niece, "I shall not be hearing any of that un-ladylike scotch slang, you understand?"
Helena nodded eagerly, watching the fine gentlemen and ladies enter the opera house, eyes glittering in pure pleasure. Those wide wandering eyes failed to notice the guards' tense stances, the two men hidden away outside the doors whispering furiously, and the shadow slinking on the opera's roof, only to disappear into the world below.
A bud of unease grew in the pit of Helena's stomach as she watched the performance progress in a whirlwind of scarlet and flames, passion and intrigue. While her aunt sat happily beside her in their seats in the third row, Helena had a sense that something was not right. Raised opera glasses allowed her to see the tense worried faces of the actors, especially on Mademoiselle Christine, whose furrowed brow marred her beauty. Soaring notes came from the girl's red lips as the opera reached its climax, the orchestra's music playing quickly and in high pitch as they waited for Don Juan to come out from the shadows to claim his dear love.
A man did appear from behind the dark curtain but it was not the portly mustached Piangi, instead a tall masked living shadow approached the beautiful Christine, singing in a strong tenor. Helena found herself mesmerized as the man glided across the stage like a tiger stalking his innocent prey. It was all so unnerving, watching a stranger with an air of menace take up a role that was not his own, yet so beautiful, seducing its audience into a hushed awe.
Helena watched suspiciously, her hands twisting her lap; as her eyes followed the pair continue their passionate performance. The music crescendoed as Christine and her mysterious shadow climbed the staircases leading to the beams above the stage. The audience gasped as the couple grasped each other in a fiery embrace, their arms entwining, their lips singing a sweet slow tune. No one took a second to wonder of the whereabouts of the missing Piangi. The man onstage seemed subdued, hot passion melting into desperate love, as he held Christine's face in his hands. Adelaide let out a dreamy sigh, probably wishing she was the beloved soprano. It all seemed so lovely and Helena waited for the dark-haired siren to embrace her lover in a kiss but that was not what occurred. The music died down to a bittersweet waning hum, as Christine reached up to place a gentle hand on the stranger's face. The events that followed flashed in front of Helena's eyes, leaving imprints in her mind: a black mask falling to the stage below, a horribly disfigured face contorted into an expression of disbelief, and the glint of a sword snapping a red rope. The audience screamed and cried out as the sparking chandelier above their heads swung down, ripping up the intricate ceiling designs, bound to smash the hopeless crowd below.
Not wasting time to cry or go into hysteric, Helena gathered the silk of her dress and ran, the candles of the chandelier casting an eerie glow over her frightened features. The smoke burned her nostrils as she tried to breathe, her corset no help at all. People pushed past her, hitting her shoulder and sending her toppling to her knees. Helena squinted and saw on the ground under an iron bar of the chandelier, a meaty pale hand decorated with shining rings, Adelaide!
Crawling on her knees, Helena ignored the pleas of the guards to get everyone out of the building as she inched toward her motionless aunt.
"Addie... Aunt Addie," she rasped, smoke causing her to cough and sputter. Her aunt's head laid limp against the crimson carpeting, a trickle of blood running down her hairline.
"Dear girl, is that you," her aunt asked in barely a whisper, one finger twitching, "I believe its my time to bow out but at least that handsome guard at the door gave me a wink." Aunt Adelaide's eyes fluttered shut and her red painted mouth curved into a slight grin. Tears were now rolling freely against Helena's cheeks, dripping onto her new dress of midnight silk.
"Such a scoundrel..." Adelaide murmured for her finger dropped onto the floor again, her face turning pale and still. To Helena, all the screams of terror and cries of sorrow turned to white noise, the flames and smoke turning to a dull glow before her eyelids as she let herself fall to the ground next to her aunt. With the last ounce of energy she had, Helena pulled a piece of fabric from beside her feet, a gentleman's black cloak, over her form completely before closing her eyes. If she survived this disaster, she didn't want to be found for she'd rather not survive at all if she had to live life alone.
Erik hated the charred curtains around what would have been her bed. He hated the smashed mirrors that his own rage had produced. Most of all he hated the weight of the ring in his pocket, a ring that was to be presented to an angel. The empty space where his boat should have been left him feeling hatred and self-pity, the uncovered flesh of his horrid face leaving him feeling raw and exposed.
He rested his chin on his knee as he gazed out into the lake ahead, spitting into the foul water, soot falling from above to splatter across his face. He hated her, that seductive siren. No, he loved her, his sweet sweet angel. He hated himself, the monster, the murderer, the blank angel of death. It seemed unusual that a ghost such as himself should be nursing a broken heart over a bottle of strong liquid. What to do, he mused, gazing around the charred ruins of his lair, what to do?
Go up and face the horror of what you've done a voice in his mind told him. So the infamous opera ghost threw his bottle into the lake and adorned his burned and torn cloak, staggering into the water until it reached his knees. He walked as the undead often do walk, an empty husk of a man moving only by instinct as he made his way through the water and up the steps that led to her dressing room. His ragged breath echoed against the black stone that smelled of smoke and sewage as he pushed open the glass and wobbled unsteadily into the room that once held his beloved. Snow appeared to be falling from the ceiling, creating little white spots on his cloak but he realized with a scowl that it was dry ash dancing across his guilty shoulders.
He pushed aside ribbons and flowers and burnt decor with one boot as he clutched his chest with one fist. He swept past the memory filled chamber and into the hallways which were black with ruin, white with ash, red with the grand furnishings that once were. It was only two days since the dreaded affair and there was a possibility that there would be investigators at the scene, but a drunken phantom was still a phantom, silent and cautious not to be seen. Erik climbed the stairs into his box, pushing back the curtain so that he could see the damage he had caused. The sight almost sent him to his knees, knuckles turning white around the golden banister. Grey, everything was dead. The chandelier held no light where it lat in pieces on the ground, shards of its lass winking at the man above. The stage was empty, its floor white and black with ash and soot. No bodies could be seen for the doctors and officials had come yesterday to receive the dead or wounded. All was silent and cold, motionless and lacking all life.
Erik turned to leave, his shoulders sagging with remorse, when he heard it, rough and clear against the silence: a cough. Stumbling over to the banister again, Erik looked with bloodshot eyes down to the rubble. There, near the stage, did that black heap of fabric just tremble? Erik watched with wide bleary eyes as the dark fabric moved again, shifting across the floor. Something small and pale came from under the fabric and tossed it aside only to reveal a woman, a living (if barely) breathing (rather wheezing) woman! From what Erik could see, she was rather short, dressed in a tattered and torn silk gown. He backed up against the edge of the box, using the curtain to shield himself from sight as he watched her stagger to her feet only to fall back on her knees again. The woman let out a few trembling sobs, her face tilted towards the heavens but obviously finding nothing, her gaze lowered only to land directly on his box. A gust of tricky winter wind blew the curtain to one side, revealing the man behind it. Erik's eyes met the woman's and the woman's met his. She could report him to the guard, she could go after him on spot, she could be his demise! It was rather fortunate that she fainted though. Erik let out a harsh chuckle as his long fingers traced the banister and as he gazed down at the motionless woman. He knew what he had to do, precautions had to be made, for after all, she had seen him and misery does indeed love company.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please do leave a little review to tell me what you think of the story so far.