Staring Into the Abyss
Hymn Angelic does not own any characters, places, phrases, etc. from 'The Phantom of the Opera'.
Chapter 1:
Discovery
It was a dreary day in Paris. One of those days that visitors to the city, as well as it's occupants, liked to pretend did not exist. 'Not in Paris,' they would whisper amongst themselves, as they sat in the sunshine on beaches or in parks. 'Never in Paris.' But the constant denial of it's existence had not prevented this gloomy day from arriving. The sky was a depressing gray, and there was a thick mist hovering above the ground. It did not reach high enough to obscure a carriage driver's vision; it simply hovered, filling the air with moisture and the people in the air with an uncomfortable dampness. The buildings seemed foreboding and gray in the hazy light, matching the apparent color scheme the weather had provided. There was also the threat of imminent rain hanging within the suspicious clouds above the city. It was through this mist and past these suddenly unfriendly buildings that a carriage clattered, bearing the crest of 'de Chagny'.
Christine stared mournfully out of the carriage window. A dark shadow haunted her eyes, making it seem doubtful they had ever held a lively sparkle. She felt an ache in her chest, and turned toward the other passenger. Raoul was looking out his own window, head studiously turned completely away from her. The urge to say something sank, and she turned back silently.
He was ignoring her. Punishing her with his silence. He meant to make her upset enough to speak first, to apologize first, or, best of the three, call the entire thing off. It would not work. If she did not do this, she would never be at peace. She ached for him to understand, but knew that he never would. He had never felt his soul rise or experienced such pure ecstasy as she had. It broke her heart to know that her own husband would never understand her longing. She could never say a word, of course. It was painful enough with her own heart cracking with sorrow. To know that she had caused his heart to feel the same pain would be completely unbearable. Because she knew he would not be able to stand it if he knew that she would always be a mystery to him.
One year. She smirked grimly to herself. A whole year. Or, as Raoul probably saw it, only a year. A year since she had stepped foot in her beloved Opera House. It was closed now. It didn't matter. She had to return. Her soul hungered to see the familiar statues, the sweeping architecture, the beautiful stage. Raoul knew it, too. She had spun him a tale of how she needed to retrieve some personal artifact, abandoned in her dressing room when they had fled. But he could tell. She wasn't sure what had given her away. The pleading hunger in her eyes that she could not hide. The taut, uncomfortable way she held her body now.
You look like a dancer, Christine. Why must you stand like that?
How she had longed to turn to him in tearful fury when he said that to her. 'It's because I am a dancer, Raoul! I always have been, and I always will be!' She wanted to say it. She needed to say it. But she didn't say it. She just smiled, tried to adjust her posture so it was not so obviously that of a ballerina, and cried silently when not even the maids could see her. She was losing it now. Even when she was completely alone, she was unable to bring her body back to the form it had once held constantly. She hadn't even attempted to sing. It hurt too much. She was sure now that, if put to the test, her voice would fail her. She did not even speak much anymore. It all made her yearn for the Opera.
It's not exactly…normal, Lotte. You understand what I'm saying, don't you?
Yes, she understood. Of course she understood. She wasn't to tell his proper, upper class friends where she had come from. Bragging about her dear father's fame…that was perfectly acceptable as well as expected. But even mentioning her own brief period of stardom? Strictly forbidden. Viscounts did not marry opera singers. And they certainly did not marry former chorus girls. Even if the name she had once held was Christine Daaé, she barely felt she knew that girl, much less was her. Perhaps this was the way all women felt when they grew older and shed their father's name.
Their wedding had not been the fairy tale she once imagined. A brief, hurried affair, with next to no guests and a gown that had been purchased from a store window. After their escape from the terrifying cellars of the Opera, they had been frightened still. Their fear had led them to marry as soon as possible, as though the union would frighten away any lingering horrors that may have followed them. Or, she thought wryly, one specific 'horror' in particular.
The carriage had stopped. Christine rose as the door was opened for her. She accepted the driver's hand and stepped out daintily, holding up her thick, woolen gray skirts to prevent them from falling into a puddle. How quaint, she thought as she scanned the neighborhood. I match. Her lips were pursed in a vaguely derisive manner, daring anyone to disturb her or comment. Then her eyes landed on the ruined Opera House. Every last bit of her nonchalant façade fell away immediately. Her eyes softened, and she thought suddenly that she might cry from the tragic beauty of it.
Parts of her former home were obviously charred, while most was simple covered in ash or debris. It was clear there had been no major activity here since the, now infamous, 'accident'. Windows were broken. The building that had once commanded awe and respect was now withered and tattered. It reminded her of a beautiful woman who had woken up one morning to find herself old and decrepit, the world quietly mourning the loss. She was so enraptured with the sight of her devastated home; she did not even hear Raoul jump out of the carriage behind her.
"Wait here," he said to his driver. "We won't be long." The driver nodded his understanding and Raoul strode past Christine, barely even glancing at the once magnificent structure. "Come along," were his first curt words to Christine after an entire morning of silence, "Let us be done with this quickly."
Choosing not to respond, Christine followed her husband up the steps, aching inside with each time her foot touched stone.
It was not until she reached the doorway that she felt a wave of apprehension. Certainly…he could not still be here? Haunting, waiting, stewing in his madness and fury. She had a sudden mental image of him in his lair. Sitting in front of his impressive organ, the cold white mask blocking his deformity from view. He scowls as he scribbles notes down on parchment. He bangs his fist against the keys in fury. He's angry, always angry. At her. In an instant, he senses that she is in his domain, his Opera House. Because truly, it is known that this has always been his Opera House, and his alone. He stands, rage flashing behind those deceptively cool eyes. He stalks through his terrifying secret passages, listening and watching. Listening and watching for a sign. In only moments he discovers her. Alone. Unprotected. Easy prey.
"Christine!" She jumped at Raoul's voice and looked into the lobby. He stood at the base of one of the staircases, looking highly annoyed. "Are you coming?"
With a hasty nod, she swallows her worries and walks in. No trapdoors send her hurtling downward, no nooses slip around her neck, no threatening chords ring out. Feeling emboldened she continued on, shaking the image of the Phantom from her mind. As frightening as that picture had been, scarier still was the readiness with which it appeared.
What harm could it do? Christine stared fixatedly at a thick velvet curtain, covered in dust. There's a secret passage behind it, she knows, leading where all secret passages must lead. What harm could it do her to travel down, just once more? What harm could it do her to run her fingers over the keys of the organ, now surely covered in grime? What harm could it do, to sit down on the beautiful bed in the room intended for her, close her eyes, and remember times past? What harm, indeed! A blush rose in her cheeks. All manner of terrible things could happen to her. Even if he was not still there, she could slip. She could fall into the lake. She could get burned by the candles. And if he was still there? The terror increased exponentially. A chill ran down her spine, imagining the things that might become of her if the Phantom awaited her in his lair.
But now that she had the opportunity, how could she not go? If she did not descend there now, it would be a constant ache for the rest of her life. She had to go now. She had to rid herself of any memories, or thoughts, or feelings that were still haunting her as surely as the Opera Ghost had haunted her during her days here. She had to wash her hands of all of it right now. Maybe when she returned, she would be able to do so many things others took for granted. Maybe she would be able to grasp Raoul's hand and not suddenly yearn for it to be encased in black leather. Maybe she would be able to kiss him and not remember tasting the salt from tears. This was not a choice she had. This was a task she could not turn away from.
With a deep breath to steady herself, she pulled the curtain back, pulled away the stone where she knew it would give and stared into the blackness. For a moment she told herself what a terrible idea this was and how foolish she was being; and how she should just walk back to Raoul and tell him she had completed her business and leave this cursed place for good. Then she walked into the darkness.
It was very wet, to say the least. Water dripped from walls and pooled on the ground. At least, Christine supposed it did. She could not see a thing in the black. The only times she had been through these passages, she recalled, were with her Phantom leading the way with his torch. Wait just a moment…my phantom? However, she had no time to think on her odd phrasing, because her soft, expensive slippers failed to give her proper traction on the slick stones, and she fell. Her momentum caused her to slide several feet down the passageway, and it was only her complete shock that kept her from shrieking like a mad woman.
Once she had stopped sliding, she returned shakily to her feet, careful not to lose her footing. She placed a hand on the wall to steady herself and looked ahead. She could see the warm flicker of candles reflecting on the wall ahead, and her breath caught in her suddenly tight throat. Was it possible? Could it really be? She shouldn't go any further, she had to stop, she had to turn back. But her feet refused to obey her brain, and kept moving her inexorably forward towards the light.
The place looked almost identical to the last time she had seen it. The organ sat, piled high with pieces of parchment, on which she knew was scrawled beautiful music. The lake lapped casually at the stone, and the candles burned brightly. But looking closer, she could see the changes. Every mirror was shattered. And most candles were almost gone, some completely melted away. It was incredibly lucky, she realized, that the candles on top of the organ had not set alight to the many compositions stacked in their range.
The candles were burning, the lake was lapping, but where was the king of this dark kingdom? Where was the Phantom of the Opera?
"Hello, Angel." She froze and stiffened. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and a not-entirely unpleasant shiver went through her spine. That voice. So calm, collected. Not in the least surprised. He had been expecting her.
She turned slowly towards the source of the voice, although she knew that with his ventriloquism expertise, he could be any where. But he was there. He lay on the floor, head propped up precariously by an uneven stone. His eyes were half closed, and a dreamy smile was spread across his face.
"Have you come to carry me away from the wretched existence at last?" He asked, then snickered quietly to himself. Christine felt relief rush through her. He was delirious. He probably didn't even know she was actually there. But as soon as the relief came, it was gone. Why was he delirious? People did not hallucinate without good reason. Ignoring her better instincts, she came forward, then knelt, not a foot away from him. She scrutinized his face. Still as captivating as ever, with the enigmatic mask still in perfect place. Of course.
"Thank you for coming, Angel," he murmured suddenly, "I would not have been prepared to leave without seeing you." Slowly, waveringly, he reached a hand up towards her face. She was frozen, unable to pull away as his hand brushed her cheek. As leather made contact with flesh, his eyes opened fully and he drew his hand away in an instant. "Christine. You are not…what are you…why would…leave…" He could not even form a sentence; she could see him struggling against the delirium.
"You are very sick," she whispered, then mentally slapped herself. He obviously was aware of that fact. But he did not react with sarcasm or derision. He began shaking his head violently from side to side; to the point that she worried his brain might be in danger.
"You must go now. Leave here. You promised…" he broke off as his eyes rolled backward.
"No!" She seized his shoulder, reflexes taking over. "I'm going to make you well again." What was she saying? What the hell was she saying? He was a kidnapper, a murderer, a madman, vicious and unrelenting. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and she was talking of saving him? Would it not be a gift to the world to let him die right here? Apparently the man in question agreed with her inner monologue.
"Leave me, Christine! I do not deserve any…anyth…" he faltered again, but she squeezed his shoulder tighter, trying desperately to keep him anchored here.
"I will help you, I will."
"I could," he closed his eyes, and she saw the tears again. She felt her heart pounding harder than ever at the sight of his tears. She remembered for the briefest moment the beautiful music they made together, not merely when they sang. When his eyes opened, she saw his monumental weariness of life. "I could never ask you."
Christine stared down at the body of her mentor, teacher, angel, captor, deceiver. He was begging her to leave him here to die. He had only hurt her as long as she had known him. Why should she-
Because it wasn't true. In the beginning, he was truly beautiful. He was all that kept her from going mad with grief at the loss of her beloved father. He gave her strength. He gave her beauty. She felt safe and loved. Before there was stardom, before there was Raoul, even before sweet roses with black ribbons, there was a scared little girl and a beautiful angel who saved her from the coming black with his own warm darkness. His darkness had always been different than any other darkness she had known. While most of the little ballet rats were frightened in the dark and saw it as cold and imposing, Christine knew how warm and supporting it could be.
When she wept for Papa Daaé in the night, she always heard a sympathetic voice singing to her softly, making her feel better. He taught her how to sing, the one thing that brought her more happiness than dance in her youth. He praised her when she was good, and criticized when she made mistakes, but he was never cruel. It was what he had taught her that led her to what became the happiest time of her life.
But it also was the most terrifying times she had ever known. Gone was the gentle teacher of her childhood. He had always been strict, he had always demanded obedience and perseverance, and she had never failed him. Now, looking back, she wondered if the mad obsession had always been there, and she too blind or innocent to see it. His voice was always her strength and, ironically, her light. It became the one thing she feared most. He was always there, he was everywhere, and she could not escape him. She felt confined and claustrophobic, knowing every instant of every day that he was there, he was watching her. And all her worry and all her fear climaxed when he attacked. He was a monster with no respect for human life. Except hers.
But now, as she stared down at his desperately vulnerable form, she found herself unable to feel the bubbling hatred and terror she had once felt. He was no longer a phantom, an angel, or a beast. He was a man. He was a very ill man who might die in front of her at any moment. Just as her father had. She couldn't save Papa. There was nothing she could do. She had to save this man. She had to prove to herself that she had the ability to prevent death when she found it. She lost the one person who mattered most to her. She would not lose again.
Her decision made, she felt her chest swell in pride, but she was soon deflated. How was she to get him to the surface? Even in his incapacitated and obviously malnourished state, he was far larger than her, and heavier than she could even drag. She cursed herself for being slight, and again for her expensive dress that further limited her movement. She considered for a few moments, then decided begrudgingly on the only choice she had.
"Raoul!" She shouted as loud as she could, feeling slightly sick to her stomach with pity as she saw her patient wince at the noise. "Raoul, I need you!"
She continued shouting for several minutes, praying that he would be able to follow her voice down the passage. Luckily, her prayers were answered, and he appeared at the other end of the room, looking terrified. She realized with sudden embarrassment that he probably thought she was being attacked.
"Christine, what is it? Are you all-mon dieu!" His eyes landed finally on the emaciated body of his rival, the one man he hated above all others.
"He's dying, Raoul," Christine pushed all other emotions to the back. She would have time to talk with Raoul when her teacher was healing. "He's dying."
His expression made it clear that Raoul did not see the issue in this. He looked at her, jubilant.
"We'll be free at last, Christine!" When she did not react with the same joy he felt, his brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "Christine?"
"I can't let him die, Raoul," she whispered, afraid to speak the treacherous words. His jaw nearly dropped open, and it was clear he thought she had gone completely insane.
"Christine, what are you saying? He's…he's…" Raoul could not even summon the proper word to express his disgust and hatred for the pitiful creature who lay dying on the stones.
"He's ill. He needs medical attention. I…" she hung her head. She never spoke against her husband. She was doing her best to be a well-bred wife, but she could not let this go. She bit her lip and looked back up at him, wishing he would look into her eyes and understand her muddled emotions. "I have to save him. He cannot die."
"Why?" He was desperately searching her face, horror at her words etched across his face. "Why do you insist on helping this…thing?"
"I," she hung her head once again, and did not look back up before speaking. "I do not know." She didn't, really. She hadn't fully worked out in her own head what truly compelled her to save the man who had haunted her. Who still haunted her. Raoul made a derisive sound, and she looked up sharply, filled with bravery from her adrenaline rush. "But I know I cannot leave him here to die. It is God's will-"
"God's will?" Raoul laughed, dryly and mirthlessly. "God has nothing to do with this despicable creature." Christine stared at him, desperation flooding her. Why had she thought Raoul would help her? He had no reason to whatsoever. He had never glimpsed the beauty that lay behind the vicious thorns. But she had to convince him to help. She had to. She screwed up her courage and looked up so their eyes locked.
"I will not leave without him." Raoul stared at her in disbelief, and she folded her arms across her chest. She sent fervent messages to him through her eyes, willing him to do this for her. They both knew that it would not be impossible, or even very difficult, for him to simply lift her and carry her back to the carriage. She prayed that, out of respect, he would not do that. He could not look away from her, and the hurt and questioning in his eyes dug into her. She ignored it as best she could. She could not waver the tiniest bit, or he would gain control.
"Christine, you must be-"
"Do this for me," she interrupted, "and I will never speak of him again. And…" she took a deep breath. This was more painful than she could ever have imagined, but as they say about desperate times… "I will never return here."
His eyes widened. This was an offer almost too good for him to turn away. The shadow of the Phantom and the Opera House darkened every day. He would like nothing better than to forget that either had ever existed. And now she gave him the chance to achieve his goal. He would not have to think about it, she would not mention it, this whole place could fade into oblivion. His mouth worked as his brain did, until his shoulders drooped from their defensive position and he smiled ruefully at her.
"The things I am willing to do for you, Little Lotte."
She leapt to her feet and embraced him, then quickly set him to work. With all his strength, Raoul was still not quite able to lift the other man, but he could drag him along the wet stones. Christine smiled a little brighter. The treacherous stones that had caused her to fall now allowed her to rescue her former master.
The Phantom protested weakly, head lolling as Raoul dragged him by the wrists. Christine noticed, with some remorse, that while he was saving his archrival…he was not taking any pains to make the movement more comfortable. It took several minutes longer to get up the passage than it had taken Christine to walk down it alone, but they reached the dusty light of the surface within half an hour of their arrival. They continued towards the door until they reached the top of the stairs, where Raoul called for his driver. The man came quickly, and stared in shock at the limp body. However, he recovered and, their strengths combined, he and Raoul carried him to the carriage.
"Wait!" Christine, glancing at a cracked flower pot that had filled with rain water, was struck with an idea. She pulled up her outer skirt, causing Raoul to exclaim 'Christine!' and the driver to gasp and turn away embarrassed, and ripped a strip from her petticoat. She dunked it into the water, then ran over to climb into the carriage. She lifted the now unconscious man's head and shoulders gently, then lay his head back into her lap. Raoul cried his protest, and the driver, now thoroughly overcome with shame at the behavior of his mistress, climbed to his seat so he would see no more. "There's no time to complain. His head must be supported."
Raoul looked as though he would refuse her comment, but knew it to be the truth. He climbed up next to the driver, his space in the carriage taken up by the new patient, and the carriage clattered away down the streets.
Christine looked down at the head of the unconscious man in her lap and gently sponged his face with her dripping petticoat fabric. She worked her way across his face, until she reached the mask. She paused, hand hovering, unsure of what to do. She could remove the mask…but she quickly decided against that. Trusting to his deeply ingrained reflexes, he would most likely awaken if she touched the mask. And if he awoke, he was certain to be angry. After all, she had done the one thing he despised most: disobeyed his direct order to leave him. Though he would no doubt be angry anyway when he healed and awoke then, trusting to God that he would heal, it would be safer for all parties involved if that was at the de Chagny manor. She would feel safer there, at least. So she simply continued to carefully cool the smooth side of his face, and pray that he would at least live out the carriage ride.
Author's Notes
I should not be starting a new fic. I really shouldn't. But I am. Oh well. This fic has been ingrained in my mind since a few weeks after I first saw the movie (that would be…January?), and now I am finally giving in. This will be mainly centered around the ALW 2004 movie version, but elements of Leroux may come into play, depending on how the story develops. I'd like to have more Leroux, but I've only read the book once. Whilst the movie…going on seven times now, I think. Please review, and be forewarned: This fic will likely be updated slowly. I have many other things that I'm working on, especially if I'm going to attempt to keep up this outstanding chapter length (mine are usually at most 4 pages…this is 8 of pure story). I'd also love some concrit since I am trying to write an actually serious fic. Most of my stories are a tad…tongue-in-cheek/sassy. So if I'm trying to hard, and this is melodramatic, please tell me. Then again, a lil' melodrama never hurt anyone. This author's note is now exceedingly long, so I leave you to review (as I am certain you will. Because if you don't…I have been known to beat people with pretzel sticks. You have been warned.)
