Disclaimer: POTO characters and plotlines do not belong to me. All original characters, while borrowed from the confines of history, are my property. I appreciate any and all reviews as a new writer in this genre.
A Father's Promise
My first thought of the foyer was the brightness of the marble. It was glossy and pure as freshly fallen snow. The floors stretched onwards, lined with stagehands holding fig leaves to resemble the entrance of the Elysian Fields. The invitation specified the Opera Populaire's reopening gala, just in time for its annual Bal Masque, was to resemble the Greek's envisioned heaven. Accordingly, all attendees were to dress in Grecian costumes befitting their stations.
Another reason to separate the masses. This certainly won't help the upcoming revolution, I thought with a raised eyebrow. I shook my head slightly, blonde ringlets falling haphazardly out of the mess of curls on top of my head. Despite having the last few weeks to adjust to this body in this place, the remnants of my former life still played like a continuous movie in the background of my mind. I hadn't quite reconciled my ability to know what was coming with living in it. Furthermore, my current body followed a different set of rules than the one I had in the future.
At least her soul has the means to be strong, given her station as a woman, I thought dryly as I felt a slight push on my elbow. I looked upwards into the doting eyes of my father. His hand lay within the nook of my elbow, his body posed to continue our journey into the main ballroom. In accordance with our ranking, we purposely arrived well after the event's beginning. Monsieurs Firmin and Andre, eyes beady with greed, waited ahead to announce my father and I to the ball's attendants. All they hear are the shattering of applauses as the patrons scurry to give them more money for the opportunity to rub shoulders with royalty, I seethed inwardly.
"Are you ready, my little lily," he asked softly, his gold crown hanging low on his furrowed brows. Dressed in a white tunic, gold breastplate and armored gloves, he resembled an aged Zeus. The vitality in his physique, even at the age of 54, was overshadowed by the lines of worry on his tanned face. Thick blonde hair, tied in a knot at the base of his neck, glistened under the opera house's candles.
As I had discovered since awakening from my coma so many weeks ago, he was a fearsome royal whose only soft spot was me; his only daughter and the only link to the deceased love of his life, my mother, the Grand Duchess Elizabeth Mikhailovna of Russia. At 26, while considered a spinster in many circles of nobility, I was as intelligent, outspoken and calculated as any young male noble poised to inherit a position of royalty.
After all, this was the purpose of attending this evening's gala. Though I'm the only one who knows differently, I thought wryly as the orchestra in the looming ballroom came to a halt. My eyes strayed ahead to the velvet crimson curtain that separated us from the main ballroom. As the curtain flapped in the night's light breeze, I caught snippets of a vengeful voice announcing the evening's entertainment.
"In light of my recent engagement…gift to my bride…a year in the making…end to his tyranny and to our fears…caught like the despicable monster he resembles…no more masks to hide behind or tricks to scare us…present Erik Destler, the horrific murderer behind the Phantom of the Opera…a worthless carcass who dreamed to be one of us," the voice hollered in anger, accompanied by the surprised gasps and then, hateful laughs and taunts from the gala's attendees.
Suddenly, a scream echoed against the walls of the opera house. Knowing the pain behind that cry of anguish nearly broke my resolve. It seemed to be drawn from the depths of Hades itself.
Not yet. I'm no good to him if I dissolve into hysterics. I can't lose myself at this moment. Everything has lead up to this. There's no fetching him from Hell if I follow, I mentally yelled at myself. Biting my inner lip to keep from rushing into the trouble ahead, I took a step forward. Monsieur Firmin noticed this change and rushed to take my outstretched hand. My skin crawled as his spidery fingers lingered longer than appropriate on my bare wrist.
"Please disregard the theatrics, my dear. The Comte De Chagny, one of our most devoted patrons, has recently secured a most," he paused to search for the right word, "unique gift for his bride-to-be, Christine Daae. His gift will hang with the start of the New Year tomorrow since the evidence against him is so compelling. Given the heartache he has caused this theater and the Comte's fiancée, we felt it best let him administer this man's punishment. Though, he is hardly a man, as our esteemed leader expressed upon seeing him earlier this evening."
"I see the French still take cues from their barbaric ancestors, who also sought entertainment from the suffering and pain of those less fortunate. I wonder how loudly you might scream at the end of a blunt sword, Monsieur," I replied with a dark smile. You have no idea how differently this night is going to end, I thought ruefully. Monsieur Firmin blanched and quickly withdrew to the safety of his co-owner's height.
"Irina, may I speak with you for a moment," my father whispered hastily as he pulled me to the side. Another scream, this one more pained, floated through the break in the curtains. More jeers followed suit. I squeezed my gloved hands tightly to keep from drawing the dagger hidden in my garter.
"France and Nassau exist in an uneasy truce right now. It's my hope that a union between you and one of the young nobility at this gala will solidify our peace so we stand a chance against an invasion from Prussia," he explained angrily, "but I sense that is not your goal for this evening. So please, will you kindly share the thoughts dancing in your calculated mind before I pull out what remains of my hair?"
"Pappa, all of your hair will remain intact by the end of this evening. But no," I conceded, "I will not wed one of the backwards Neanderthals posing as French nobility. However, I assure you we will leave with a stronger peace between France and Nassau by the close of this evening. But I need something from you."
"What do you need that I have not already given to you, Irina," my father asked quietly.
"You have given me everything, Pappa, and more. But what I need from you is a promise. You have spent the last 26 years grooming me to lead our province. Our journey to this place, especially after my rather quick recovery, has laid to this moment. I need you to promise that you will trust the move I'm about to make is for the best of Nassau, as well as us. More importantly, I need you to back me up," I replied with a sigh. Please don't make this harder, I quietly prayed.
"I don't know what you have in mind, Irina, but my trust in your mother was unwavering. Likewise, that extends to you. I simply hope that you know what you are doing. Unlike chess, there is no going back once your move is set in motion," he cautioned with a stroke of his knuckle against my pale cheek, "You're going after him, aren't you?"
"I understand, Pappa," I whispered solemnly, "And yes, I am. After all, what is life without your soul mate? You found Mamma at my age."
"You have your dagger," he asked while pushing aside his breastplate to show the hilt of his sword.
"Always," I replied with a cruel smile, "After all, what is Athena without her sword?" I caught a glimpse of myself in my father's breastplate. My gold hair was piled high atop my head, held in place by a warrior's crown of spikes. White silk fell in loose folds across my pale body, cinched at the waist by a gold belt. The layers laid low on my chest and ended in slits above my strong legs. No backward glances, I thought wryly.
"Monsieurs, my father and I are ready to be announced to the gala," I ordered while turning to face the theater owners. Drawing myself up to my full height of 5'8, I narrowed my cold blue eyes at the crimson curtain as it was pulled away to reveal the glittering lights of the gala. I followed my father as we walked out to the top of the staircase. The crowd quickly turned to face us as the new act in their lewd play.
I quickly identified my opponents. The Comte stood at the top of the opposing stairwell, arrogant and brash in his costume as Adonis. A demure dark-haired beauty stood to his side, presumably his fiancée dressed as the innocent Persephone. Her eyes were cold as she stared at the man who had become the evening's entertainment.
She certainly picked the part of the victim for this evening's show, I observed. My eyes traveled slowly down the lasso in the hand of the Comte and followed on to the victim in its grasp. With as much indifference as I could muster, I allowed my eyes to take in the broken and beaten figure of my other half.
The last time I'd seen him, I was still a drifting soul floating somewhere between life and death. He'd been dressed as the regal aristocrat in a black three-piece suit with tails, a mahogany vest and pristine white shirt. His jet-black hair, though I knew it to be false, was slicked back to accentuate the stark white of his half mask. He was drunk and upset, convinced I wasn't real and that no one would ever fight for him. After all, what fool in their right mind will forfeit their life for a gargoyle like me, he had shouted.
The most poignant memory in my mind from that encounter was the look of disbelief in his blue and green eyes when I told him about my choice. That was quickly followed the blinding light that had torn me from him as the solders broke into his underground home and tackled him to the ground. All I heard before fiery pain shot through my new physical body was his pained scream for me.
As I look at him for the first time in weeks, I immediately noticed the defeat in his slumped body. An ashen color in his skin indicated the fever running through his body from his time in the French prisons. A never-ending tapestry of scars, old and fresh, covered his body. Even from across the room, I could smell the odor of the rotten vegetables that had been thrown at him. Blood soaked the scraps of cloth that maintained his decency. His leg was inverted at an unnatural angle while his left arm hung limply at his side.
My eyes drifted up to his face. His Death's Head, as had once been described to me, stared blankly out at the crowd which mocked him. While others saw the devil's spawn, I only saw the shell of a great man. When his eyes followed those of the crowd and met mine, I nearly came undone. The jewels of his soul, which belonged to me only, lay as desolate and empty as a wasteland. While I caught a fleeting glimpse of recognition, it was quickly buried beneath a look of lifelessness before I could communicate back.
I won't back down, my dove. Your wings are flipped, but I'll help you fly, I thought quietly as Firmin drowned on with my father's titles. I quickly saw that spark of recognition lit up his eyes as he struggled against his bonds when I stepped forward from behind my father's watchful stare as Monsieur Andre introduced me.
"It is my pleasure to introduce the Grand Duke's daughter and his heir apparent on this trip of peace. Let us welcome her Royal Highness, the Grand Duchess of Nassau and of Russia, Lady Irina Marie Mikhailovna," Monseuir Andre yelled. Scattered applause and exclamations rose up from the crowd.
Please remember, Erik. Please don't give up yet, I pleaded with my eyes from across the room as I had in the centuries that separated our love.