Hello! First time writing a Phantom of the Opera piece. Will eventually be Erik/OC as we all know what silly decisions Christine makes. My heart broke for him, and I couldn't help writing a piece that let him be happy. I hope I don't do too poorly; I've been out of the loop writing fanfiction for quite awhile now. Still, please enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Also, at the end of the chapter, the OC is about 20-21 years, so a little older-and hopefully a little wiser-than Christine Daae.
Disclaimer: all those you see copyrighted remain copyrighted. I am merely playing in their rich world. I make no profit from this.
Don Juan Triumphant
or otherwise known as, Musicians Are All Bloody Melodramatic
Carlotte was in a tither.
This, of course, was nothing new to the beleaguered populace of Opera Populaire. It was a rather common occurrence, actually; the Prima Donna always seemed upset about something or other. Most of the people avoided her if possible. The rest simply tried to ignore her when they could. Some days were better than most.
Today was not one of those days.
"Always, with the dancing girls," she muttered crossly under her breath, mixing in a fair amount of her native Italian. Madame Giry sighed, shaking her head, and corrected a ballerina for a moment before continuing on. Monsieur Lefevre, beloved manager, was making An Announcement today, probably about all the rumours surrounding his retirement. Madame Giry sincerely hoped that the rumours were false—he was a good man, a kind man... a wise man.
She glanced unconsciously to the quiet figure absorbing the scene; the girl had an unreadable look upon her face, faintly tinged with either amusement or irritation—or both, knowing her. The girl could be as open as a stone sometimes, she thought exasperatedly. It was little wonder, knowing as she did the company she kept.
Oh dear. The two men beside Monsieur Lefevre looked severely out of place, nearly comically so. Their eyes kept darting around with a sort of childish awe. New money, wonderful. Just grand. He would probably not take a change in management too well... and come to think of it, she was as damnably stubborn as him sometimes too.
"God in heaven," she sighed in wistful French.
"Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry... ladies and gentlemen, please, if I could have your attention? As you know, there have been rumours of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you, they were all true, and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the new gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, Monsieur Richard Farmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre."
The day, for Madame Giry, went downhill from there.
As Monsieur Lefevre pointed out the people who did what and whom they needed at all costs, gentlemen, to keep happy, Monsieur Reyer finally asked about someone who seemed a bit out of place. She was a young woman, pretty, but the single island of stillness in constant musical commotion. She watched everyone with a critical eye, a quill in her hand along with a small, careworn book. The look upon her face was sardonic amusement.
"And who is that quiet slip of a girl?" Reyer blustered.
Monsieur saw who he was looking at and grimaced, taking a swig off a flask. The two new managers looked at him in alarm.
"That, gentlemen, is a mademoiselle worth her weight in gold. I am sure you heard of the long success of our last season, Serenity and Endymion?"
"Yes, of course! One of the best plays Opera Populaire has ever produced! Such an innovative, fresh take on the Arcadian tale. I saw it thrice, myself," Monsieur Andre gushed with sincere, if a bit overwhelming, enthusiasm.
"She wrote it," Lefevre nodded towards her. "Danielle Giry, the brightest writer of our time, gentlemen. Every single play or musical production she has written has brought in more money than two of our last seasons combined. She is a genius... though perhaps the easiest one I have ever worked with. If you give her a request, or she gets an idea into that head of hers, she'll disappear for days—sometimes weeks—and then return a masterpiece. Heavens knows she asks for little compared to the inestimable La Carlotte. Two or three bottles of fine liquor—the kinds change from month to month, though she's found of rum at the moment—a small percentage of the take on her ideas, and voila! Just give her credit for her work and she asks for nothing more." Lefevre shuddered. "But her temper, though slow to rise, is terrible. I suggest, gentlemen, you stay upon her good side."
The two new managers' mouths opened and closed for a moment. Lefevre plunged on.
"Danielle! What do you think of our new managers?" Meg whispered.
Danielle rolled her eyes, a mischievous smile hinting around her mouth. She gently poked her cousin in the ribs.
"Well, they haven't met Carlotte yet."
"Oh," Meg giggled. Danielle chuckled with her, her eyes straying to a curly, dark-haired dancer. Some shadow seemed to drop over her, green eyes growing blank with some unseen emotion. Meg had often caught her lately looking at Christine that way, but for the life of her couldn't fathom why. Christine and Danielle always been on the best of terms, sharing a polite friendship that was sincere, if a bit lacking warmth. Once, Danielle had in her blackest frustration confided to Meg that sometimes she wondered if Christine was naïve or simply ignorant. Meg hadn't brought it up and Danielle hadn't spoken of it since—but sometimes, the sweet dancer worried about her adopted cousin.
"Hello, Mademoiselle Giry! What an honor it is, to meet the unrivaled genius behind Serenity and Endymion! Where ever did you get the music from? I have never heard such exquisite angu-"
"Monsieur Andre," Danielle cut it smoothly, "I am confident in my own skills and talents so that my ego hardly needs stroking. I am sure all your strength will be put to... better use elsewhere. Provide my poison, my credit, and I am happy. Unless I am needed, sirs, please leave me be."
Her voice wasn't sharp or angry—it was steady and quiet, even a little amused. It was, however, as unyielding as solid steel.
Stammering, they guffawed their way out of the sticky command and hurried off. Meg sighed, looking at her with disappointment. Danielle caught the look and sighed.
"I am a writer, Miss Meg, not one of you dramatic opera folk. I need peace and quiet to write, and I cannot do that with new managers coming to me expecting to wait on them artistically hand-and-foot. This way, I can still come and go as I please as I always have."
Or almost always, she thought bittersweetly. I am bound now to this place more strongly than if I were in chains...
She pulled out her flask and took a long drink, grimacing at the burn. Meg watched her worriedly; once, her dear friend had been as full of joy and song as the liveliest of dancers. Now, some strange ache had taken deep roots in her heart. Danielle had never been the type to cry or show strong emotion, at least not in front of strangers, and rarely among the few privileged to be counted as her friends. She was a woman who carried her burdens, whatever they might have been, privately. Meg wished that she would talk to her, as she sometimes used to do. She couldn't remember the last time Danielle had smiled and it had reached those sharp, wistful eyes. Gently, Meg squeezed her shoulder.
She was rewarded with a quirk of soft lips, a firm squeeze back.
"I'd better go before La Carlotte gets here. She and I in the same room is never an excellent idea," Danielle laughed. Meg rolled her eyes.
"How long are you going to hold it against her that she did not meet your expectations as Serenity?" Meg demanded playfully.
"Until she meets them!" they chorused, dissolving into giggles.
Hugging Meg tightly, the writer bid her momentary farewells and slipped away unnoticed save by her adopted aunt, Madame Giry, who watched her with sad, knowing eyes.
The cool, quiet world of the catacombs was a relief after the frantic heat and constant noisy movement of the surface world. She breathed deeply, carefully making her way down into the depths. She traced her path by heart, the gentle echoes of painfully beautiful and anguished music guiding her, growing louder as she descended. Finally, she blinked painfully in the candlelit ambiance of Music's Throne, its Strange Angel already hard at work.
"The rumours, it would seem, were actually true this time," she spoke abruptly, not waiting for him to acknowledge her. He didn't reply until he'd finished the haunting piece.
"I thought they might be. I'd overheard some business discussions. Apparently, we also have a new patron as well."
She closed her eyes, letting the rich baritone of his voice wash over her. For a moment, her heart tightened painfully, her throat dry. If only you could see into my thoughts, your music might be happier... but as long as Christine Daae exists, I will only be a ghost.
"Yes. Well. I suppose I should have known that you would know first," she chuckled wryly.
Danielle was tempted to reach for her flask again, but refrained. He would take it as a sign of weakness, or worse—uncomfortability. She shook her head, chasing off the depressing thoughts.
"Well, Erik," she smiled, her eyes drinking him in as she approached with unconsciously sensual grace, "I suppose I'd better go back to writing the new production, then."
He looked at her and nodded, but didn't speak again. She took that as encouragement that she wouldn't be shooed off, settling down near his feet to write. They fell into companionable silence.
Danielle had been thirteen when she had come to Opera Populaire; skinny, dressed in rags, her feet cut badly. Monsieur Lefevre hadn't known what to make of it. She'd calmly told him she was there for the job of playwright, was it still open? Oh it was? Good, then she hadn't been too late. She could start immediately. Flustered with her mature, unshakeable confidence, he'd asked (demanded?) an example.
In three hours time, he had a full play with music, song, and characters that made him anxious to keep reading. He hired her immediately, and asked her nothing more. She moved in the ballet dormitories, where she became fast friends with young Meg, defending her from jealous bullies. Madame Giry liked her at once, and Danielle adored the ballet instructor.
A few years passed in blissful peace for the intelligent, warm teenager, however, her past soon caught up with her, as she knew it eventually would.
"I am looking for my daughter," a lady said stiffly, her birdlike features seeming weak yet harsh all at once. "Her name is Danielle de Martine."
Monsieur Lefevre traded glances with Madame Giry, whose face had closed. She shook her head slightly, and Lefevre nodded.
"Madame—de Martine, was it?-I have only one Danielle at the Opera Populaire, a Danielle Giry. She is the niece of our illustrious ballet instructor, Madame Giry. I apologize, as I am sure this is not what you desired to hear, but I am afraid I cannot help you."
The silent, disconcerting man accompanying Madame de Martine leered, chuckling.
"I can see my girl, sir—dancing with the other pretties in the back. Bring her here, now—or else I will have to involve the police, Monsieur."
Beginning to have a clearer picture at the darker reasons that had driven his playwright from her family home, he waved her over. Her face paled at the sight, but soon she smiled charmingly.
"Are these new patrons, Monsieur Lefevre?" she inquired politely, feigning ignorance with utter deftness. The man eyed her with a look that was decidedly not fatherly. She did not acknowledge it.
"Tell them your name, niece," Madame Giry urged.
"Me? Are they reporters from the press? The new opera hasn't even opened yet! Oh very well, this is all a bit odd. I am Danielle Giry, niece to the magnifique Madame Giry. Please remember it's Danielle with two L's; last time you reporters came, you misspelled my name most abominably," she replied tartly.
"Stop pretending, daughter, and go home with us now. I am tired," Monsieur de Martine ordered roughly.
"Home? But I am home, monsieur," she replied bewilderedly.
"See? There you go. Now, I must ask that you leave," Monsieur Lefevre ushered them out.
And that had been that. Madame Giry, later, had asked Danielle why she had left. Haltingly, with bitterness and tremulous courage, she had recounted the tale. Madame Giry embraced her and did not ask again...
Not long afterwards, the curious girl had followed the faint sounds of music, seeking peace wearily. It had been coming though a wall, which of course was impossible—or would be if the wall was solid. Determined, she had made her way for the first time to the dimly lit catacombs where she encountered... him.
He had been fearful and angry, at first. Retorting angrily herself, she had asked him why such a beautiful-souled man hid away down here. That had stopped him; no one had ever thought of him as beautiful, save maybe for Christine who thought he was an angel.
"Beautiful? Oh madamoiselle, if only you knew..."
"Well, I'm not bloody deaf now am I?" she snapped. "That was beautiful music you were playing. Only a beautiful soul could make that sort of music."
He'd stared at her, speechless. Her logic seemed simple and stubbornly clung-to. He'd thought the same too, but never of himself. Of others, certainly; those not burdened by his terrible visage. Of Christine, always.
"I am a monster," he breathed out, anguished. "I am more hideous than you can imagine, little madamoiselle."
She'd hesitated then, as if plucking up her courage; she'd taken a deep breath and then continued on. Her guarded eyes had opened a bit, stilling with distinct emotion that he could not interpret.
"Not from what I can see and hear," she replied softly.
He touched his mask unconsciously, uncomfortably. He was not used to praise, certainly not from the tastefully appraising looks the girl was giving him. He searched her face, bracing for the laugh, the joke, but none came. Her eyes were wary, cautious, but honest. The only fear in her eyes was the fear of a stranger, which he certainly was.
"If you saw beneath my mask, you would agree with me," he stated sadly.
She shrugged, her green eyes going strangely blank.
"Monsieur Maestro, we all of us wear a mask. You say that you are hideous—well, if you are hideous, if it lies under your mask, then you are lucky. To bear ugliness in shallow flesh and bone, to be free of it in your soul... no, monsieur, you are a truly rare and fortunate creature indeed. Too many fair men hide monsters where they cannot be seen."
Stunned into silence once again, he studied her. She was short, barely breaching five feet. Darkly golden hair waved over smooth shoulders, the somber green dress bringing out the color of her defensive eyes, which were flecked with tawny gold. She wore no jewelry, save for a slim silver necklace around her throat. She was on the cusp of womanhood, destined to be if not a great beauty, then at least to be a very pretty, somewhat imposing woman.
"Will you... will you promise me not to scream, if I remove the mask?" he whispered.
Bitterly, she laughed. He did not like the sound coming from the young girl.
"Monsieur, I do not scream. And I have endured greater trials than whatever lies behind that mask of yours. I can assure you with confidence, no screams will come from me," she held her head high. Unnerved by her jaded assurance, slowly he removed his mask.
Wincing, he waited for the inevitable condemnation.
She snorted.
"It's not that bad, monsieur."
He glared at her, leering with the whole hideousness of his face, and she dared to say that it wasn't that bad?
"Really, it's not," she smirked. "I would consider you fair of face, mask or no. It looks just perhaps a bit burnt, nothing more. But then again, maybe I am a weird judge. I have walked strange paths in my lifetime, sir..." she trailed off, her luminous eyes clouding with acute pain.
He thought of reaching for her, attempting to comfort her as she had comforted him, but decided against it. It would be entirely too forward, and they didn't even know each other's name! Apparently, the thought had not occurred to her—or else she ignored it, which he was fast discerning could be a distinct possibility with the queer young woman.
Gently, as if she were afraid he would break, she touched his face. Not the handsome, smooth side—the distorted, ugly part of his face. Her tiny hand was cool from the air but quickly warmed. Desperately, he leaned into the rarest of touches. There was no pity in the touch, just a soft mapping of his face.
"Like I said, monsieur," she breathlessly whispered, "not so bad at all."
Reluctantly, she removed her hand. Tears glittered in his blue-green eyes but did not fall; pride prevented it. He contented himself with trying to show his immense gratitude in his eyes.
"Now then, monsieur," she cleared her throat (was she blushing? Surely not, must be the poor candlelight...) "I believe introductions are in order. I am Danielle Giry."
She held out her hand, which he folded into his larger hands carefully.
"I know you. You are the playwright for Opera Populaire. I admit, I am quite the admirer of your work, though your music could be better. I am... my name is Erik," he gave a small smile.
"Oh really?" she raised an eyebrow playfully. "Well, why don't you show me some music of your own... Phantom?" she challenged, grinning.
Surprised that she had put together that he was the elusive boogeyman, he realized that she had probably known from the first instant of their meeting. And still, she had been inhumanly kind to him. A warm rush of gratitude filled him, vowing to repay her someday for looking at his face unflinchingly.
Settling his mask on, he gave her a competitive smirk of his own.
"I might have a piece or two lying around..."
And so their strange friendship had grown for the past two years, deepening and maturing with time. Madame Giry hadn't approved, but didn't stop it—the Phantom and the Writer had tempered each other, each continuing to slowly but surely blossom with the other. However, she knew that some time ago Danielle had fallen deeply, irrevocably in love with Erik... who only had eyes for his protege, Christine Daae. Admittedly, the older woman was probably the only person who knew of the writer's love; Danielle was a strangely proud, strong woman when it came to her feelings, letting few in when she was hurting. And she was hurting, probably more so than even her beloved 'aunt' could guess at. Christine, of course, had no idea why the tenuous friendship with Danielle had cooled so rapidly over the years. Meg, bless her, chalked it up to the two women growing apart.
Broodingly, Danielle sat in the rafters as La Carlotte walked out for the final time, not a few days before Il Muto. Her heart clenching, she wanted to sew her mouth shut, berate herself for causing herself more pain. But her conscience, her love for Erik, demanded it. Sighing, she waited for the managers to stop shouting.
"Good managers! Christine Daae can play the part of Countess," she called out clearly.
Oh Erik, the things that I do for love... sometimes I wish I were weaker.
"What! Mademoiselle Giry, surely not a chorus girl!"
"She has been taking lessons from an angel, Monsieurs!" Danielle laughed wildly, her heart beating brokenly. Christine gasped at the knowledge the young writer had of her lessons. Was that why she had avoided her for so long? Had the Angel of Music frightened her away?
Loudly, from the safety of the shadows, the playwright demanded Christine sing, her voice oddly choked. As Christine's unearthly voice carried across the theatre, she retreated into the obscurity so she could weep in private.