A/N: Hey! L'Ange (formerly silent whispers) here! Maybe this isn't my first
phanphic, but it sure as hell may suck big time.I don't know what I'm
talking about #^_^# 'Neways, it may be pretty weird, so.yeah. If you can
bear with all the nonsense in this story, *huge* kudos to you, my friend!
Cheers and enjoy!
~ PROLOGUE: The Phantom of the Opera is There.
(Paris Opera House, 1862)
"Jeans, this is a stupid idea. I mean, for what reason would an idiot like you want to go down there and seek some unknown thing in the darkness of a cellar ruined by a flood merely days ago?" The dark-haired young man stared back at his companion with a look of skepticism and ridiculing.
"Relax, Antony," the other boy replied with a grin, tying a solid-looking pig-bristle rope around his waist. "I just want to know what I can find down there, if the water didn't wash away everything."
"If you do find a certain item," Antony continued, raising an eyebrow, "What are you going to do with something so useless?"
"I'll sell it to that old Persian loon who always lurks around the Opera, I guess," he shrugged. "He claims to have known Monsieur Le Fantome better than anyone else around here. Besides, it helps to keep a bit of legend around for the children in later days."
"Suit yourself," Antony sniffed. "It all belongs to a real dead man now. Still, Jean, you should be on the lookout for anything peculiar-or dangerous."
"I shall, I shall, my dear comrade. Just lower the rope."
"I don't trust it, though. Where did you say you found it again?"
"It was just lying around near the discarded backdrop," he confirmed. "It should be fine, nothing seems to be wrong with it."
"All right." Antony nodded, completely exasperated by his friend's daring idiocy, and loosened his grip on the rope to send him down, down below the trapdoor they had discovered earlier, into a sea of pitch-black. Worry struck him again.
"Jean, how will you be able to see without a lamp?"
"I have a matchbox. Stop being so damn cautious all the time, Tony! I'll be fine."
"If you say so," he grumbled. "Full slack on the rope, then."
"Thanks. I'll see you in a while."
Bit by bit, the boy's body sank with Antony's careful, rhythmic hand movement with the rope, descending into the world of underground catacombs below the Great Paris Opera House that no one had even dreamed of. It was a strange feeling, having yourself being brought to place as deep, airless and lonely as hell, but curiosity had eaten up his fear and weirdly compelled him to drop further inside.
No one would probably understand, but it felt to him like someone-someone he didn't know, and perhaps never would-wanted him to manage to get his hands on something of the greatest value, something that would turn another's life in a completely different direction-something that would bring memory into one's heart, and leave a mark of its own in the same place.
Little did this youth-handsome, boyish, bold and energetic Jean-Claude Marquel, just one of the Opera House's stable hands-know that all of that was to happen very soon.
But suddenly, Jean-Claude was jerked out of his floating journey inside his imagination to realize that the rope was moving ten times swifter than it should have been.
*No way, * his mind raced frantically, his fast-sweaty palms grasping it for invisible support in a useless attempt to catch himself. *Why am I moving so quickly? Antony would never let this happen.*
*Unless--*
He was only speeding farther down, now noticing how deep it was, several parts the sub-stories being destroyed by the enormous aqueous storm before, supposedly caused by a sustained well upsetting some boxes and rising to break some of the rotted woodwork.
*Oh no--did he let go of the rope--? *
"Antony!" Jean-Claude shouted in his desperation, his cries disappearing as echoes in the greedy nocturnal realm he was entering at a presently increased pace. "Antony!"
In his frustration, he was surprised to hear a loud but very muffled shout, sounding like his best friend's, that was stifled into silence half a second later. He was now without doubt that something had gone terribly wrong, with both the rope and the other stable boy.
But Jean-Claude had no more time to think. He had no intention of falling into the swollen well-water that he was sure lay at the bottom of this decrepit place, so he had to grab hold of something. Still suspended in nothing, he untied the rope in a rush, still trying to hold on my growling faintly in despair as it slipped from his hands, agilely turned his body over in one quick spin, pawed the invisible wall he could only hold on to, and succeeded to changing his position from back first for the final crash to feet first, which he figured would hurt less.
His wish to hang on to something was answered five excruciatingly long seconds after, when he painfully felt his attenuated, fair-skinned fingers slam hard into what seemed to the decayed material of an old storage crate, preferably held up by the water or the remaining wood that stood against it.
His hands hurt by the impact but still strong enough to support him, Jean- Claude kicked his way up to the crate's smooth, weary surface and finally nudging off the frayed edge to sit down and catch his breath, still stunned by the speed of the fall.
After about a minute of his tense breathing, he remembered perhaps the only thing that would provide him with helpfulness now, and reached into his dirty apron pocket to find a small wooden matchbox covered in scratch paper. Sighing softly, he scratched one of the tiny sticks against the box's side to light it, and sure enough, to his great gratitude, a diminutive yellow, black and blue light emerged, the limited source illuminated a few meters of the bleakness around him.
Surprised at such a clear range, Jean-Claude held a splintered and slightly bloodied palm nearer to the petty fire, stinging his skin but protecting what was supposed to protect him. All he could see at his level was an ocean of nothing, and looking up only the layers of thin, broken floor, so taking caution, like Antony had warned him what seemed like centuries but only minutes ago, he leaned his slim figure over the brink of the large box with the match still clasped tightly in between his secure fingers, and peeked down as far as his eyes would go.
And he saw the underground world. What seemed to be exploded dust from the Opera's old sandbags littered the bottom of the strongest floor, just until a large hole full of grayed water stopped its trail, like someone's sick fantasy of a beach. He noticed that the distance from the box from the soft cushion of sand wasn't that far apart.
Besides.
What was that?
Something else was down there.
It looked like some small piece of paraphernalia.maybe white.
What exactly was it?
Looked like he needed to find out.
More out of curiosity than courage, Jean-Claude pushed himself off the box brim onto the sand smothering the wood, surprisingly not feeling his feet. He was right about that strange object. It just sat there, still incomprehensible, compelling him to pick it up and examine it. Mystified, he bent down and swept it from its aged grayish-gold perch.
It was a mask. A pure white one, glowing against the diminished light, something to cover the whole face with.
Who should own such a mask.?
It reminded him of ugliness, of concealment, of secrecy, of hidden desire. Surely this puzzling object's master would have all of these qualities? He must have, because Jean-Claude immediately felt some icy breeze penetrate through his skin and mercilessly chill his bones just thinking about it.
But he had no time to think. In the blink of an eye, something bristly brushed across his left ear, inclining him to glance upwards. Tremendous astonishment hit him when he realized that it was the rope dangling above him. He thought it had fallen into the water or got lost in one of the upper floors--!
But he didn't have a choice. If he actually wanted to get out of the isolated underground hell, he'd have to trust anybody-or anything. Something else came to his mind-maybe Antony had come back to his senses and dropped another rope down to rescue his loyal and ever-thankful best friend.
"Antony!" Jean-Claude yelled, glad that someone had actually answered his mental pleas for help. "Mon amie, is that you?"
No answer.
"Antony?" he called yet again. "Oi, can you hear me?"
There was still no reply, but the rope kept pulling him up steadily in a quick, uninterrupted movement. Finally, he kept quiet, only watching himself ascend floor by floor, still clutching the white mask in his hand. Was this what was calling him earlier.?
What was even stranger to Jean-Claude Marquel was that what seemed hours ago, when the rope had loosened around his middle, and after hanging from the trapdoor's boundary and pulling himself up, he found out that no one had been pulling him, and the rope was hanging in midair.
~ PROLOGUE: The Phantom of the Opera is There.
(Paris Opera House, 1862)
"Jeans, this is a stupid idea. I mean, for what reason would an idiot like you want to go down there and seek some unknown thing in the darkness of a cellar ruined by a flood merely days ago?" The dark-haired young man stared back at his companion with a look of skepticism and ridiculing.
"Relax, Antony," the other boy replied with a grin, tying a solid-looking pig-bristle rope around his waist. "I just want to know what I can find down there, if the water didn't wash away everything."
"If you do find a certain item," Antony continued, raising an eyebrow, "What are you going to do with something so useless?"
"I'll sell it to that old Persian loon who always lurks around the Opera, I guess," he shrugged. "He claims to have known Monsieur Le Fantome better than anyone else around here. Besides, it helps to keep a bit of legend around for the children in later days."
"Suit yourself," Antony sniffed. "It all belongs to a real dead man now. Still, Jean, you should be on the lookout for anything peculiar-or dangerous."
"I shall, I shall, my dear comrade. Just lower the rope."
"I don't trust it, though. Where did you say you found it again?"
"It was just lying around near the discarded backdrop," he confirmed. "It should be fine, nothing seems to be wrong with it."
"All right." Antony nodded, completely exasperated by his friend's daring idiocy, and loosened his grip on the rope to send him down, down below the trapdoor they had discovered earlier, into a sea of pitch-black. Worry struck him again.
"Jean, how will you be able to see without a lamp?"
"I have a matchbox. Stop being so damn cautious all the time, Tony! I'll be fine."
"If you say so," he grumbled. "Full slack on the rope, then."
"Thanks. I'll see you in a while."
Bit by bit, the boy's body sank with Antony's careful, rhythmic hand movement with the rope, descending into the world of underground catacombs below the Great Paris Opera House that no one had even dreamed of. It was a strange feeling, having yourself being brought to place as deep, airless and lonely as hell, but curiosity had eaten up his fear and weirdly compelled him to drop further inside.
No one would probably understand, but it felt to him like someone-someone he didn't know, and perhaps never would-wanted him to manage to get his hands on something of the greatest value, something that would turn another's life in a completely different direction-something that would bring memory into one's heart, and leave a mark of its own in the same place.
Little did this youth-handsome, boyish, bold and energetic Jean-Claude Marquel, just one of the Opera House's stable hands-know that all of that was to happen very soon.
But suddenly, Jean-Claude was jerked out of his floating journey inside his imagination to realize that the rope was moving ten times swifter than it should have been.
*No way, * his mind raced frantically, his fast-sweaty palms grasping it for invisible support in a useless attempt to catch himself. *Why am I moving so quickly? Antony would never let this happen.*
*Unless--*
He was only speeding farther down, now noticing how deep it was, several parts the sub-stories being destroyed by the enormous aqueous storm before, supposedly caused by a sustained well upsetting some boxes and rising to break some of the rotted woodwork.
*Oh no--did he let go of the rope--? *
"Antony!" Jean-Claude shouted in his desperation, his cries disappearing as echoes in the greedy nocturnal realm he was entering at a presently increased pace. "Antony!"
In his frustration, he was surprised to hear a loud but very muffled shout, sounding like his best friend's, that was stifled into silence half a second later. He was now without doubt that something had gone terribly wrong, with both the rope and the other stable boy.
But Jean-Claude had no more time to think. He had no intention of falling into the swollen well-water that he was sure lay at the bottom of this decrepit place, so he had to grab hold of something. Still suspended in nothing, he untied the rope in a rush, still trying to hold on my growling faintly in despair as it slipped from his hands, agilely turned his body over in one quick spin, pawed the invisible wall he could only hold on to, and succeeded to changing his position from back first for the final crash to feet first, which he figured would hurt less.
His wish to hang on to something was answered five excruciatingly long seconds after, when he painfully felt his attenuated, fair-skinned fingers slam hard into what seemed to the decayed material of an old storage crate, preferably held up by the water or the remaining wood that stood against it.
His hands hurt by the impact but still strong enough to support him, Jean- Claude kicked his way up to the crate's smooth, weary surface and finally nudging off the frayed edge to sit down and catch his breath, still stunned by the speed of the fall.
After about a minute of his tense breathing, he remembered perhaps the only thing that would provide him with helpfulness now, and reached into his dirty apron pocket to find a small wooden matchbox covered in scratch paper. Sighing softly, he scratched one of the tiny sticks against the box's side to light it, and sure enough, to his great gratitude, a diminutive yellow, black and blue light emerged, the limited source illuminated a few meters of the bleakness around him.
Surprised at such a clear range, Jean-Claude held a splintered and slightly bloodied palm nearer to the petty fire, stinging his skin but protecting what was supposed to protect him. All he could see at his level was an ocean of nothing, and looking up only the layers of thin, broken floor, so taking caution, like Antony had warned him what seemed like centuries but only minutes ago, he leaned his slim figure over the brink of the large box with the match still clasped tightly in between his secure fingers, and peeked down as far as his eyes would go.
And he saw the underground world. What seemed to be exploded dust from the Opera's old sandbags littered the bottom of the strongest floor, just until a large hole full of grayed water stopped its trail, like someone's sick fantasy of a beach. He noticed that the distance from the box from the soft cushion of sand wasn't that far apart.
Besides.
What was that?
Something else was down there.
It looked like some small piece of paraphernalia.maybe white.
What exactly was it?
Looked like he needed to find out.
More out of curiosity than courage, Jean-Claude pushed himself off the box brim onto the sand smothering the wood, surprisingly not feeling his feet. He was right about that strange object. It just sat there, still incomprehensible, compelling him to pick it up and examine it. Mystified, he bent down and swept it from its aged grayish-gold perch.
It was a mask. A pure white one, glowing against the diminished light, something to cover the whole face with.
Who should own such a mask.?
It reminded him of ugliness, of concealment, of secrecy, of hidden desire. Surely this puzzling object's master would have all of these qualities? He must have, because Jean-Claude immediately felt some icy breeze penetrate through his skin and mercilessly chill his bones just thinking about it.
But he had no time to think. In the blink of an eye, something bristly brushed across his left ear, inclining him to glance upwards. Tremendous astonishment hit him when he realized that it was the rope dangling above him. He thought it had fallen into the water or got lost in one of the upper floors--!
But he didn't have a choice. If he actually wanted to get out of the isolated underground hell, he'd have to trust anybody-or anything. Something else came to his mind-maybe Antony had come back to his senses and dropped another rope down to rescue his loyal and ever-thankful best friend.
"Antony!" Jean-Claude yelled, glad that someone had actually answered his mental pleas for help. "Mon amie, is that you?"
No answer.
"Antony?" he called yet again. "Oi, can you hear me?"
There was still no reply, but the rope kept pulling him up steadily in a quick, uninterrupted movement. Finally, he kept quiet, only watching himself ascend floor by floor, still clutching the white mask in his hand. Was this what was calling him earlier.?
What was even stranger to Jean-Claude Marquel was that what seemed hours ago, when the rope had loosened around his middle, and after hanging from the trapdoor's boundary and pulling himself up, he found out that no one had been pulling him, and the rope was hanging in midair.