Prologue:
She was stunning. She had to know. How could she not? A member of the ballet corps, she deserved to be prima donna, as her grace was unequivocally and undeniably mesmerising. She was famous, and half the audience came to the opera to watch her, and not the stories, he was certain.
Now, he realized, that wasn't all she was good at.
Her voice. It was truly unparalleled. What mountains he would climb, what seas would he tame, what tempests he would brave, just for the echo of that voice. But she only sang in private, alone, in dark hallways and cramped fitting rooms. He hadn't ever heard her before then, and it was because that night was different.
She'd stayed behind long after the candles were blown out, and the last of the cleaning crew had dispersed. She'd stayed until the moon had swung high overtop the opera, until even the drunkards on the street had quieted and were sleeping. There were no lovers beneath the stars, no wanderers or thieves running about the city. The alley cats had finished their nightly hunt, the dogs had gone to bed with their masters, and even the stars seemed fit to retire for the day.
She'd waited until all this and more had passed, and then she took the stage. She'd never stood on this stage alone, had never stood still on it for long at all. She'd danced and leapt and laid across every inch of it, but her aim was not to command the stage in dance that night.
Alone in the light of a single candle, she opened her mouth on the edge of that stage and sang.
It was his domain, the opera house at night. How many years had he maintained that rule? How many sneaking children of cast members and clambering, half-dressed drunks had he sent running to preserve this balance? Of course he'd gone to investigate this alluring new sound, not that of children or drunks, still uninvited but welcome all the same.
She was marvelous. She had to know. Did she already? He couldn't conceive that she didn't, and yet he'd seen the way she held herself. He saw the shyness, that familiar instinct to hide in shame, to keep quiet, to keep small and out of the way. It was not an instinct familiar to those who thought highly of themselves, or knew themselves true.
Drawn from the shadows by the pull of her voice, her magnificent gift, honed to perfection to his graceless ears, she saw him.
She needed to know. If she didn't know, he would make certain she found out.
"Forgive me, monsieur, I- I know I shouldn't be here, I-" The beautiful young woman started to explain, afraid of punishment, afraid of being forced to leave the opera, the magical world of dance and story that had become her home.
"You must sing again." He declared, hardly meaning to interrupt that peerless instrument, but unable to let her deferrence and shame play out before him. "On this stage, for all to hear."
"Monsieur?" This was not what she expected.
"You must sing again. Your voice- it's the most wondrous thing.. I could make it happen. I will, if you would allow me.." He offered a hand, a rare gesture, but he recognized that this was a unique moment, an even rarer opportunity. It would not come again.
"How? Who are you?" She asked, but intrigued now. Still shy, still unsure, but curious. "I've never seen you at the opera before.. and you wear a mask. How am I to trust you?" He had nearly forgotten! He was masked, dressed in all other ways for the stage play that ended hours and hours ago. But that mask- what a necessary evil it was to him- how could he explain that a monster hid behind the plaster to such a fair lady?
"I have no name. I am simply the Phantom here. Every decent opera house has one. But-! Given the opportunity, I would be anything and everything it would take to make you a star. That being said, you're more than qualified to be so already.." The man shook his head in reference to himself, but raised his bright eyes to hers.
"I.. I may need some convincing. Music, to me, it is.. private. Special. I only want to share it with those who are very important to me.." Again she stepped back, and his hand retreated.
"I can't claim to understand. I believe, until now, that I have never heard music before. Yours is the only voice.." His words fail him, dropping from his mind entirely in the face, and she was charmed. Chuckling, she stepped forward again, head tipping to the side in curiosity and wonder.
"You said you do not have a name. Would you like one? I think everyone ought to have a proper name.."
"It would be a gift beyond compare, mademoiselle, to be given a name from you." He nodded.
"Then.. you are henceforth 'Gerard'. Yes.. Gerard Carriere, the Phantom of the Opera." She smiles, chuckling, then offers her hand. Gerard, newly named, reaches up, and helps her down from the stage. Once more, the grace with which she moves stuns him, and he is unable to speak. It seems, to him, that meeting her gaze is all she can do. She smiles again, and curtsies.
"My name is Belladova."