Hello, readers! My name is Jenn, and I am a total liar. I said I would finish my first fanfic ("No Deliverance"…a Buffy/Angelus fic), before starting anything else. But this story has PLAGUED my mind, ever since I saw "Love Never Dies." If you haven't seen it, I most definitely recommend it. It's a far-fetched sequel to PotO, but the music is lovely. I'm not an extreme Phan, but I've loved Andrew Lloyd Webber's work ever since I first heard Michael Crawford's version of "Music of the Night."
This story will be an amalgamation of PotO, LND, Gaston Leroux's novel, and my over-active (read: over-indulgent) imagination.
Don't expect cannon. I don't do cannon. I do fanfiction.
Disclaimers: Not my characters, blah blah blah, I don't own the rights to anything, blah blah blah, please don't sue (it's not like I'm making any money off of someone else's work), blah.
Rated M for (eventual) adult content.
Madame Giry could hear the Vicomte's hurried footsteps descending the stone stairway, as she made her way back up to the ground floor. She had told the Vicomte that she could go no further, when, in truth, she was terrified that she had already interfered in the Phantom's business beyond what he might deem forgivable.
Her thoughts were a jumbled mess of emotions: devastation for the destruction of the Opera Populaire, her only home; pity for Miss Daae, a girl whom she had practically raised; and, most of all, fear.
The outraged cries of the mob coming to claim the Phantom of the Opera filled the cavernous room. Almost as if their voices joined together in passionate chorus. If the Phantom wished to escape, he needed resources and trickery that was unknown to the ballet matron.
Fear. That was the emotion that ruled the rest. For, if the Phantom survived the mob, there was no telling how heavy his retribution would be toward her.
She and Meg would leave this same night. There was nothing left to hold onto. Christine was his and the Opera would be ashes by morning. They would start anew. All of them. And, God-willing, Madame Giry and the Phantom would never meet again.
Meg Giry hesitated, when her mother commanded her to remain above ground. After a moment, she followed her mother and Raoul through the old door leading to the underground.
The darkness disoriented her, and she did not have the time to return for a torch or candle. Letting her eyes adjust, she peered over the edge of the center stone wall and saw Raoul's torch light the two figures moving steadily down the ever-winding staircase. They were well ahead of her, but she did not call out to them. Her mother would not approve.
Mother was Christine's guardian, Raoul and Christine were to be married…but why should Christine's best friend and confidante not be included in her rescue party?
She carefully made her way down the aged stairs, occasionally monitoring her mother's and Raoul's progress. Suddenly, her mother stopped and then said something to the Vicomte. She watched as the handsome young nobleman held his hand up to his eye, almost in mock salute, mimicking her mother's same gesture. They were talking about the Phantom's famous Punjab lasso. She shuddered, but reassured herself that the Phantom would never physically hurt his beloved Christine.
Before she could take another step, she heard the mob above her, starting their descent. Their steps were confident…unhurried, like a march of crusaders. Looking up, she saw their shadows waver in the wealth of light they had brought with them. Continuing on her mission, the young Giry crept further underground.
When her mother approached, she flattened herself against a recess in the wall. Awaiting her mother's scolding, she was shocked when none came. Had her mother not seen her? With her long blonde hair and white flowing blouse? Truly?
But as she watched her mother climb the stairway, she felt her confusion melt away to worry. Her mother had the most bewildering expression on her face…as if her mother was dreading…something. Meg shook herself from her concern. All that mattered was retrieving Christine. With fresh determination, she quickened her pace down into darkness.
Despair filled the Phantom's heart as he watched the spoiled suitor lead his protégé away. Away forever, from him. They would find their happy ending together, like the end of a child's fairytale. He was no villain, however. The villain in those stories never wanted the princess or maiden to be happy. He did. He just wanted Christine's happiness to be one with his own.
"Masquerade…paper faces on parade. Masquerade. Hide your face, so the world will never find you…"
He looked up at that moment to see Christine walking toward him. Her face was morose. Did she already regret her decision?
She held out her hand to him, and he returned the gesture, reaching up from his seated position. As their hands met, his heart skipped a beat, daring to believe she had changed her mind. But he felt the ring indent his palm. A worthless ring. Purchased by the lover boy, stolen from her breast, and then offered back to her as a declaration of his desperate love. His heart sank.
"Christine, I love you…"
Her retreating form could not be pulled back by his pleading eyes or voice. She truly was gone. He wept openly at his loss, quieting his sobs to hear the last vestiges of her sweet voice echoing across the lake.
"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Say the words, and I will follow you… Share each day with me, each night, each morning…"
He stood and sang his final farewell to his angel of music.
"You alone can make my song take flight…it's over now, the music of the night!"
As his voice trailed, he grabbed the nearest candelabra and began to smash all of the mirrors in his lair. Glass shards littered the uneven floors, reflecting the unmasked Phantom. Satisfied that there was enough broken glass to hide his escape route, he let the blunt object drop and stepped through the final mirror. He had heard the mob coming for him earlier; although he had pleaded with the Vicomte and Christine to tell no one about him, he was certain that, with enough people, he would eventually be found. The Phantom let the curtain fall in place behind him, shrouding him in darkness…except for a sliver of light that showed a new face enter his lair.
Who is that? Is that…little Giry? What is her name…
Seeing her nimbly traipse through his sanctuary arouse a fury within him. It was her mother that had betrayed him. How else could the Vicomte have found his home in the catacombs? When the insolent wretch had showed up, sopping wet, at his gate, the Phantom had reigned in his surprise. He was used to improvising. Yes, he preferred to plan everything in advance, but he was always ready to adapt to whatever fate threw at him.
But if Christine's precious Raoul had not shown up, he would have carried out his plan uninterrupted. And she would have grown to love him…once she had matured into the woman he was molding her to be.
Madame Giry was the only one who knew how to find him. Her previous kindnesses were meaningless to him. She had stabbed him in the back.
And now he was about to return the favor.
Meg. That's her name.
She was pretty. Long, wavy blonde hair. Porcelain skin that, paired with her hazel eyes, lit up her youthful face in an absolute picture of innocence. Delicate features. She had been a close friend to Christine, he recalled, from the very beginning of their boarding together. Meg surpassed Christine in dance ability, but not in any other category.
His eyes narrowed as he watched her study his mask. He had forgotten to take it with him. That lapse of judgment did nothing to quell the rage boiling inside of him. Quietly, he knelt down to the floor to grab the spare rope that lay there. He easily tied the noose knot, and allowed his fingers to grip either side of the loop. Underneath his black gloves, his knuckles were probably as white as the mask Meg held.
Wherever you are, Marguerite Giry, I hope you feel your daughter's death to the very core of your soul. You deceitful woman, you deserve so much worse…but this will have to do.
He prepared to lunge from his hiding place…
A new idea infiltrated his mind. It caused him to drop the rope.
He crept up behind her and grabbed her petite frame. One arm wrapped around her waist, while the other hand muffled her cries of alarm. Her hands flew to the hand that held her mouth, still holding onto the Phantom's mask. He felt her back press further into his as she hyperventilated against him. When he had finally dragged her to the hidden tunnel behind the mirror, her body slumped in faint. He picked up her lithe frame and threw her limp body over his shoulder, then bent down to retrieve the bag he had packed and placed earlier in the week.
After walking about ten feet further down the tunnel, he paused to pick up the end of another rope. One sharp tug and the peg that had been holding loose rock caused a cave-in that blocked passage back to his home. Not that it was his home, anymore.
He turned away from his past and contemplated his future. It was time, once again, to improvise.
And even though he was leaving without Christine, he still had a consolation prize.