A/N This is my first fanfic after many years enjoying everyone else's stories. This is based on 2004 film version and Gerry's portrayal of Phantom. Reviews (even anons), suggestions, thoughts etc all greatly appreciated. I've gotton to chapter 5 with this but wanted to see how it was received in case I need to tweek anything. So let me know ok!
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, only my own OC's and plot.
The Owl and the Pussycat
Edward Lear
1st published in 1871
The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
On a beautiful pea-green boat
They took some honey and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five pound note
The Owl looked up at the stars above
And sang to a small guitar
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love
What a beautiful Pussy you are, you are
What a beautiful Pussy you are"
Pussy said to the Owl "You elegant fowl
How charmingly sweet you sing
O let us be married, too long we have tarried
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away for a year and a day
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-Wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose
With a ring at the end of his nose
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?"
Said the Piggy "I will"
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill
They dined on mince and slices of quince
Which they ate with a runcible spoon
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand
They danced by the light of the moon, the moon
They danced by the light of the moon
Chapter 1
The pain ripped through his chest like a tidal wave. His eyes were swollen almost shut and stung from the river of tears he had wept. He thought he would lose consciousness, he felt so faint and his stomach was rolling as if standing on the deck of a schooner in a gale. "Am I dying?" he vaguely wondered. "Is this what it feels like when you leave this earth for good?" He curled into a ball on the bed in the corner of his secret refuge and wrapped his arms around hugging himself tightly as if holding on for dear life. No one knew about this place, he himself had only ever come here to store necessities hoping never to have to use it. But it pays to be prepared and the part of him that was capable of conscious thought congratulated himself for his foresight. He had, over the past years and months, deposited trunks full of clothes, candles and blankets into the furthest recesses of this tunnel - one of the most remote in the vast maze that ran underneath the Opera Populaire and continued beneath the city of Paris. There was also a strongbox hidden in an alcove which held a portion of what he managed to extract from his managers every month. Now he just wanted death to come and deliver him from the agony he was at the mercy of. Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that the voices baying for his blood had faded and had now disappeared altogether. His beloved opera house was burning above him and he had left a trail of destruction in his wake. It was time for him to go. He had caused so much pain and fear, destroying all he held dear and he could bear the weight of it no longer. His heart felt like it was exploding inside his ribcage and he could see stars behind his eyes. Time to go now, silently, in darkness...alone.
Meg Giry was soaking wet all the way up to her waist. "Thank God for trousers" she thought as she waded through the shallow lake that was at the centre of the Phantom's underground paradise. For that is what she thought it looked like - paradise. There were heavy burgundy velvet drapes lining the cavern, creating individual chambers like a Bedouin's desert palace. Towering candelabras threw a magical glow across every surface and warmed the otherwise cold and damp walls. An organ stood in the centre of it all, its pipes majestic and proud suveying the hundreds of scattered pages filled with notes that littered the ground. The floor of the cathedral-like space was carpeted with thick richly woven Turkish rugs in colours of deepest crimson and brightest gold. To the rear was what looked as if it must have been a bedroom as it housed the most beautiful bed Meg had ever seen. It was shaped like a bird, a swan perhaps, carved from some dark wood that looked almost bronze in the candlelight. The wings of the swan would wrap around you as if for protection in sleep. She could imagine only having pleasant dreams in such a magnificent bed. But this was all fancy; there was a crazed mob behind her carrying their torches aloft and calling for blood. Her imagination and appreciation for all things beautiful had completely distracted her from her purpose in getting ahead of the rest of them.
"Where has he gone, he can't have just disappeared into thin air?" Meg wondered, the crease of concentration in her brow deepening between her eyes.
Looking longingly back towards the big soft bed with its glistening gauze canopy, she spotted something on a little table. It was a child's toy - a monkey seated on a little cushion with a cymbal in each hand. It appeared to be some sort of music box. For some reason this brought a sting of tears to her eyes as she imagined a grown man cherishing and indulging in such whimsy. "Beautiful" she thought wistfully as she straightened up to leave, turning as she rose. A flash of white like an owl in the night sky caught her eye. There, lying on the table beside the little monkey was the mask.
"He's still here, he must be. He would never have left this behind" she concluded as she gently picked it up and turned it almost reverently in her hands. Suddenly she was jolted from her quiet thoughts by the frenzied chants and cries coming from beyond the entrance to the cavern.
"Track down this murder! He must be found!" they roared.
Meg spun on her heel clasping the mask to her breast darting glances around her, half expecting the Opera Ghost to just appear out of nowhere and snatch it from her fingers. The mob had now reached the centre of the lake, their high torches throwing ghoulish shadows dancing across the cavern walls and high up in to the ceiling. She pulled aside her blouse with her left hand and slipped the mask underneath with her right praying it wouldn't be noticed.
"There is no murderer here" she shouted, addressing the mob in as loud and authoritative a voice as she could muster. "There is no one here now".
The bloodthirsty crowd halted abruptly at her words creating little ripples at the edge of the water. Their ringleader turned to the mob and motioned for them to turn and go back up the way they came. Suddenly there was mass panic as another purpose fuelled their movements. The opera house was on fire and they had to go back up through it to get out. This fact had been conveniently forgotten in the manhunt. Men turned to the one behind and pushed and shoved their way to the front, smaller ones getting knocked to their knees in the process and trampled to the water. Meg held her breath until the last of them had passed under the great iron portcullis. She heaved a sigh of relief and began to shiver uncontrollably, tremors running through her body starting at her knees and shaking her ribcage. She supposed it was shock and the cold but she couldn't allow it to gain the upper hand. There would be time to fall apart later. She had to find him.
Above ground amidst the flames, Antoinette Giry, Directrice of the Opera Ballet, searched the faces coming up from the tunnels for the wide chestnut eyes and long blonde hair of her daughter. There was chaos backstage now as hundreds of theatre goers in their finery and musicians from the orchestra pit met a wall of stagehands, half out-of-costume corps de ballet, prop masters and animals running loose. The few who she managed to slow down in their haste to escape couldn't recall ever having seen her. At last one of the stage hands stopped when Madam Giry recognised him and put her hand on his arm to stop him.
"Oh Pierre, please…please tell me you saw Meg down there somewhere?" she pleaded, her eyes frantically searching his for a sign he knew who she meant.
"Yes Madame, I saw her. She got down there before us but she said there was no one there, so we left. I did not see her on the way up, maybe she's behind us? Please forgive me; I have to get out of here now and so should you, before the place burns to the ground."
Madame Giry squeezed his shoulder and nodded absently, then watched him leave with the rest. She knew Meg was still down there and could only hope that she found what she was looking for because then at least she would be safe. Wouldn't she?
Meg turned in the silent flickering light to survey the remains of the fallen angel's subterranean haven. There were pages of sheet music strewn all over the carpeted floors, beautifully drawn sketches of her friend Christine, a writing desk complete with ink pots, quills, a wax pot and that skull seal he was so fond of. "He really does favour the theatrical doesn't he?" she mused to herself " Although I don't know how he could be anything else, living as he did down here, surrounded by pilfered props from forgotten productions." Smashed mirrors lined one wall, cracked glass now distorting the last image they saw. She walked past the last one and felt a crunch under her soft leather boots. Why was there glass where there is no mirror? She looked up from her feet to the base of the wall where a heavy velvet curtain brushed the carpet. She put her fingers against the centre of the drape expecting to meet resistance but it gave under the pressure of her hand. Found you! Now she was terrified. She must be. Her heart rate felt like it had just doubled and she could feel the perspiration beading at her temples and tickling the back of her neck. She took a deep breath and took the edge of the curtain in her left hand and lifted it slowly from the ground and back.
"Oh stop being such a chicken Meg, just pull it open, it's only fabric. It can't hurt you!"
She yanked it back and a whisper of air kissed her cheeks as she kept her eyes tightly shut against what she might see. Slowly unscrewing her right eye she realised it was pitch black. It was like nothing. An abyss. A void where something else used to be. Torch…she needed a torch. She turned and grabbed the neareast candleabra from the organ bench and waved it in front of her to light her way and as a sort of weapon if she was perfectly honest with herself. She let the curtain fall behind her so as to disguise her exit, much as she guessed the Phantom had done before her.
The tunnel curved around to the right but she could only ever see a few feet in front of her. She heard dripping from the ceiling and walls and smelled stagnant water and wet earth all around. It was damp and very cold but she could feel a breeze passing over her face and she knew that it had to be travelling to or coming from somewhere. She followed the current of air like a piece of string out of a maze. She needn't have brought the candelabra; she could navigate like this in the dark. "Maybe this is how he moves around so well unseen" she thought. She reached a fork in the tunnel and was completely at a loss as to which way would be more obvious and by virtue of logic that would make it the worst one to follow if you were trying to stay undetected. This was all very well, except no logical direction presented itself. She looked down at her feet that had by now lost all feeling and lamented her scant clothing. She should have gone looking for one of his enormous cloaks before she set out. "Oh, you stupid girl! Footprints! Phantom sized footprints! Idiot," she chastised herself. She almost ran around to the right - the more obvious way as it turned out - and then she heard it.
Great wracking sobs, the universal sound of anguish and despair. It hurt her ears and she immediately thought of a wounded animal - a lion with a thorn in his paw. She stepped carefully towards the sound and came to a heavy wooden door covered in great big iron studs that looked like it been there for hundreds of years. She pressed her ear to the door and set the candelabra carefully on the ground beside her.
"Christine…why!" he wailed, the sounds of shivering permeating Meg through the door as if she herself shook with it.
"Enough" she declared to herself. Bracing herself for the torrent of abuse she was sure she would get; she breathed in, squared her shoulders and pounded twice with her right fist.
The sobbing stopped for a moment.
"Go away…leave me be…please just go…" and then the sobbing again.
Meg had had enough of listening to this so she stood firm and addressed the door who she hoped would listen.
"No I will not go away. It's Meg Giry…from the ballet. Everyone has gone. It's just you and me down here now. Please let me in, let me help you?"
She waited, ear pressed to the door straining to hear for any movements inside. She wasn't quick enough. As the door gave way she stumbled; left shoulder first into a wall of wet shirt, hot skin and man. Her right arm flew out to grab onto anything to stop her fall to the ground and found warm hard shoulder, his left hand gripping her tiny waist, almost spanning it. Meg stared straight ahead and her eyes met with the exact same shirt she herself was wearing although his was soaked through. Slowly she let her gaze travel upwards noting a collarbone, neck, chin, lips and nose until eventually she was locked into the blue green storms that were his eyes. She did not move a muscle, didn't blink, couldn't. He stared straight back, neither backing down, Meg knowing somehow this was a test that she must not fail.
"Did I not ask to you to GO AWAY?" he levelled at her in the most chillingly cold and precise tone she had ever heard. She felt the shiver start again in her knees and this time she really was cold and she had not come all this way for this.
"You are in NO position to turn me away Monsieur le Fantome" she stated in what she hoped was an equally chilling tone. He did not have the copyright on being theatrical. She pushed at the heavy door with her left thigh, bent down and picked up the candelabra waving it in front of her to make him retreat. Both moved in unison. She'd won that round it seemed.
He turned and went back to his previous position on the bed, his right side turned into the wall so she could not see his damaged face. Again he curled up in a ball, wrapped his arms around himself and began to rock back and forth; the sobs slowly overtaking him once more, seemingly oblivious to his new guest.
"So," Meg concluded silently, "the Phantom has a thorn in his heart."
She set the candelabra on a nearby table and glanced round the small chamber, noting the two large chests in one corner. She ignored the sobbing hulk of pain on the bed and instead concentrated on trying to heave open the lid of one huge trunk, finally lifting it enough to get her shoulders underneath it to flip the lid over. It was full of clothes. Clean, dry, beautiful clothes. Mens clothes. Well, what did she expect? That he'd have packed for her too? She pulled out a clean shirt, trousers, and waiscoat and then began hunting for anything that resembled a towel. The other chest had already been opened and she saw it contained blankets, sheets, and pillows and yes, just tucked into the side….towels. Why had his first thought not been to get himself into dry and warm clothes but to lament the loss of Christine Daae? Where was his sense of self preservation? Her naive friend had believed he was a spirit for the best part of the past 10 years. She was in love with the young Viscount de Chagny who lived in a château and actually appeared in public. Poor Opera Ghost never had a chance. Did he not care whether he caught his death? Or now that she had sailed off into the sunset did it just not matter anymore?
Meg was overlooked her entire life for the prettier one, the better voice, the slimmer figure. She was the best dancer of the lot of them and saw far more than she let on or than she was given credit for. She knew what Christine was doing, sneaking through the mirror to the lake, although she had never seen it. She had heard him too. She had seen him up high in the flies when everyone else's eyes were on the stage. She knew to look up. He caught her looking once and she thought that maybe he gave her a small bow before vanishing behind that huge billowing cape again. She knew he wasn't a spirit or a ghost but real. Flesh and blood real and she had never been afraid of him. Somehow she knew he would not harm her and felt almost like he kept watch over all of them. He had been there as long as she had memories. He just was. Sometime his little pranks on the stagehands or La Carlotta were quite entertaining and broke up the monotony between productions but more recently they had become serious and she knew why. Around the same time her oldest friend Christine developed that dreamy, faraway look in her eyes, often looking like a startled fawn.
He was volatile. And he was going to make himself sick if she didn't do something.
Setting the fresh clothes on the end of the bed, she found fresh water in a large jar by the door which she poured into a bowl that had been carefully packed into one of the chests. Taking one of the cloths she found, she soaked it in the cold water and wrung it out. She braced herself for the opposition this was likely to face but she remained determined to intervene. She walked to the side of the big bed and reached out a hand to touch the back of his shoulder. He flinched at the touch which made Meg jump back in fright. He turned and stared accusingly at her shouting to his full lung capacity.
"Look, LOOK! Is this what you wanted to see? Look at it and never forget."
He had turned all the way round on the bed facing her with the right side of his face. She did as she was told. She looked. She saw the side of his nose that was not quite like the other side. She saw the ridges of red, bruised, raw skin along his cheek which appeared slightly more pronounced than the left. She saw his eyelid that drooped so that she could she the red veins underneath, his distorted left ear and the mottled flesh around it where no hair grew and she felt. It seemed to Meg as if every emotion she had ever experienced was rushing through her all at the same time. She felt her eyes well and willed them not to spill over and betray her. She looked directly into the blue green whirlpools again which sparkled with fresh tears and reached up with the cold cloth. His eyes flickered and he blinked at the cloth in confusion.
"Do you wish me to cover my face from you? Is that what you want? You can NEVER forget what you have seen. Now you will never be free of the nightmare of this face you foolish, prying, insolent girl!"