hmm so I have recently become incredibly obsessed with Phantom of the Opera. And, well, I have always been at least a little obsessed with Professor Layton. I just couldn't resist the cross over opportunity, really. But I haven't really written anything in a while, and I dunno.. guess I feel a little insecure about this... I also have no idea how to do this cross over business. But I'll see how it goes :D Major spoilers for both Azran Legacies Professor Layton and, of course, Phantom of the Opera. (though in both cases I've kept it as vague as I've dared, so it shouldn't be too spoiler-y, though if I were you and had not already spoiled everything for myself, I would not keep reading)
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Material goods are non existent to me.
The night had been a cold one, a gentle breeze had found its way into the alley that lead to Desmond's house. Each step he took was another movement to add to the flurry of Autumn surrounding him. Amber leaves fled from their respective branches, the ones that had nourished them and cared for them, to seek solace in the ground. But the shoes of the man walking through the alley didn't let them rest for long, and they were whipped up into the air once more to become whirlwinds circling his ankles. The occasional leaf was lucky to rest as it found its damper side stuck firmly to the leg of the dark brown trousers the man had chosen so carefully earlier that day, and some of the rare leaves were lucky enough to be brushed from his trousers and find their way once more to the ground. His hands fumbled mercilessly against the oncoming tides of leaves that were only so violent as long as he kept up his tireless pace, his own footsteps kicking them into a frenzy. He had to get home quickly, but he had to keep himself presentable. He finally had someone that he wished to return home to, and this same person was the one whose very name echoing in his mind made him pull another bundle of leaves from his clothes. Even a difficult day at work, writing up more thoughtless slandering than he believed was necessary, was not enough to make him change his mind about that. With a short happy sigh his fingers curled tighter around the handle of his news filled briefcase, and it swung. Perhaps he would be so honoured as to be greeted at the end of the tree enclosed alley by his darling daughter, her black eyes reflecting all the emotions that he knew her mother carried for him too.
The greenery that surrounded him became sparser, not only because the previous owner of the house had failed to plant evergreens this close to the house, but because his journey was coming to an end. In a mere five steps he would clear the hill and finally be able to gaze at the life which he had spent so long in fashioning for himself. But, he reminded himself with a stern glance down at the ground, it was not just for him anymore. Awaiting him somewhere in the distance was his love and child. Though there was no daughter awaiting him today, it seemed, the vibrant orange sunset spread above the hill greeted him home with all the warmth in the world.
Two steps more, one step... soon he would be able to smell the faint odour of something warm roasting in an oven. In fact, he could smell it already. But something was wrong, or perhaps merely unusual... It was burning. The wind had stilled to the point of complete silence, or very close to it. There was only one sound he could hear, one that although he had never experienced it was not unknown to him. The journalist's briefcase crashed to the ground. It was an old briefcase, from a second hand store, he had bought it on his way home from his second day at work. It seemed to him, to be a necessity. Every man at work wore their cheaply tailored suits with their fake leather briefcases, and they were all doing quite well for themselves. He had to acquire these things too before he could consider himself equal to them. The springs on this briefcase had felt much in their day, but nothing quite so sudden as this. They snapped open without a moments hesitation, and each and every piece of writing that he had been working on spread across the grass; speaking of tragedy, love, deceit, and every other story besides. But they were nothing in comparison to what was happening beyond the pages, they were lies, fabricated for an audience's amusement. Peoples lives twisted so others could laugh and say 'I'm glad that's not me.' What was happening off the pages at that precise moment was so painfully true, that the meaningless lies he had spent so long typing up all day seemed pitiful in comparison.
For the second time in his life, one that was not as long as one might be lead to believe, he watched as an army of blue coated men calling themselves part of a private army strolled away from a disaster they had single handedly caused.
The grass that had spent all day working itself back into upright position after having been trampled in the morning was pushed back down under the weight of quick hitting heavy footsteps. He was running, and running with a speed that could have outrun flames, had they been behind him. But he was running for them, not away. They were in front of him, swinging their way into the evening sky through every hole that they had made in his house, reaching towards him with curling tendrils, backing off in desperate attempts to keep themselves from going out as the breeze slowly inched back into being, snaking back inside the house to burn anything they might have forgotten the first time... and people say that fire is not alive?
Had there been a logical bone remaining in his body he would have fetched for water, he would have had others fight the fire and he would have gone after the retreating army, he would have sent for help, he would have realised his house was lost and focus only on revenge - had he been thinking at all he would have done something rational, at the very least. But as is typical in any sort of disaster there is no rational thought, there is only mere instinct. A strong primal urge to do whatever first comes to mind, an urge so strong that controlling it takes more than self will to combat - it takes the will of others. Others that were not there. Where were the others? He needed them now more than ever, his wife, his daughter.
As he continued running towards the house a small, bitter part of his mind recalled a play he had once found himself watching in his youth. Wooden toys suspended from strings danced to the will of their conductors across a mini stage. as he lifted his hand to cover his face on pushing open what remained of his front door he couldn't help but look up in search for the strings that were now controlling him.
The heat fully possessed him when he broke down that door. He could see nothing save for flames, everywhere. They formed a yellow and orange mist to separate him from his home. And soon began to separate him from himself, cutting between his limbs and even tearing his clothes from his body. He would have ran from it, but he was no stranger to pain and he needed his family, they were in here somewhere, and he was not about to leave without them.
They would be alive still, just as his last family had remained alive even as he hid from the last lot of soldiers. His last family was still alive, though they were no longer his, and perhaps it would have been better if they were dead... Had his throat not had all moisture from it absorbed he would have screamed to scare away these thoughts from his mind. Just because they had been taken from him by those blue coated men and were now lost to him forever, did not mean that his wife and daughter would be too.
His wife and daughter simply could not be dead. They were not dead. They had to be hiding from these flames. They were smart, after all. He could not have fallen so deeply in love with someone who could not look after herself... that had been the very reason he had fallen for her to start with, had it not? The gracious easy presence of her company had seemed so natural to him he wouldn't have dared to dance with anyone else, nor could he stand to see her with anyone but him. It seemed so many years ago to him, now, in the quite literal heat of the moment, that she had first stepped into the place he had found his only solace - the Crowne Petone Opera House. The oaken floor, polished by a thousand new lovers before them, had beckoned to them both, and without quite knowing what he was doing, he had asked her to dance. She begrudgingly agreed, warning him that if her father were to see they would most likely be married on the spot. But later that evening, when other men came to ask for a dance, she would turn from them to him with wide eyes and say quite simply "I am sorry, but I am already taken for this dance."
She had defended herself in this way, no other man (unsavoury were the types found there in that theatre) dared come near her when she was in his rather formidable looking company. For the masquerade he had dressed to hide himself, being a poor stage hand he was not supposed to be at the ball at all. With long black clothes, a cocked black hat, and a white scarf so thick it nearly met his lips, all that was visible of him was the small part of his face not obscured by a decorative white jewelled mask..Though she did not know how to fight with her fists, she was smarter than he had at first given her credit for, she had chosen her company wisely. But that alone is hardly all she did to prove her worth. She was also the one to persuade him to learn how to fence, claiming that "It is the duty of every man to defend their lover." It had been in good humour at the time, but he still remembered it fondly as the first moment she had admitted to any relationship between them. She had always preferred to lead him circles up until that point, and it had nearly drove him to giving up. But of course, he never could have done that. He doubted that she would have let him.
A woman such as that had to know how to avoid the flames, had to have known to avoid the armies...
Nor could such a mindful couple have had a child incapable of looking after herself in the same situation. No, the option of their deaths was not valid, quite impossible.
The charred remains in what was left of the hall were not of either of them. Those blackened arms were not the arms of his beloved, desperately wrapped around the small body of her daughter. The sprawled and still smoking scraps of cloth that were only just visible on their bodies and the acrid smell that stung his senses could not be of anyone he knew.
He wasn't so stupid as that.
They were very much lost to him.
The light of the flames dimmed and faded, becoming too caught up in the man's loss to care for their own power. Some began to escape the house, running from their guilt, sending bright roots shooting along the grass into the nearby fields awaiting harvesting. They had not sprung up and swallowed his house of their own volition, they had been coerced and charmed into taking everything. There had been nothing there for the army to take, and so the fire had been left to take was absolutely nothing left there now. Even the man, pressed to the ground, inches away from what was left of all he had loved, was nothing more than a shell devoid of everything. It was a miracle that air still entered his body, but it did not do so for much longer.
The breeze that had toyed playfully with the rushing man earlier had returned, bringing with it massive clouds to cover the night sky and burst their loads of water upon the ground. Any last embers fizzled and died, the fire that had not escaped, gave up.
Bits of the house had started to be washed away, pulled down the hill in currents beyond anything that had been seen there for quite some time.
They still weren't seen though. For there was no one to see them.