Summary: Everyone has secrets. What if the truth isn't what it seemed to be? What really happened between Christine, Raoul, and the Phantom? And where did the Phantom disappear to when the opera house burned down? Will he retire, or continue his old tricks? Forget everything you knew about The Phantom of the Opera! Read to find out! Don't forget to review!
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing from Phantom of the Opera; that belongs to Gaston Leroux and the movie I'm basing this fan fiction off of belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber and Joel Schumacher.
Part I, Chapter 1: Memories
1917
Christine sat in front of her vanity, brushing her long, curly hair. As she watched herself in the mirror she thought back to the time when her locks were the shade of rich mahogany rather than their current silvery color. The countess sighed and set her brush down, gazing into the mirror.
There was a time when every mirror held a secret. And what a time that was, she thought with a smirk. It was a time when she had been a rising star. The world had been at her fingertips; everyone had adored her beauty and succumbed to her voice. Those days were long departed now. No one would remember her after she was gone. Still, she had done quite well for herself; she was a countess after all. She had at least part of what she had wanted—wealth and status—but the absence of fame and glory haunted her from time to time.
Christine rested her chin on her fist and sighed, thinking back nearly fifty years ago to when she made the biggest decision of her life. She wondered idly how her life would have turned out if her choice had been different. …
Christine was but seven years old when her beloved father died and Madame Giry took her to the Opera Populaire to live and study as a ballerina. There had only been two things in the world that she had cared about at that time in her life: her father and music. Now one of those things was gone forever.
For the first few months of her life in the opera house, Christine was too deep in grief to focus on her studies. She hated having to share nearly everything with the other girls in training. Her father had always treated her like a princess, but now she received no more attention than anyone else. She felt lonely and resentful.
That's when she first heard him. She had been in the chapel, deep within the opera house, praying out loud. She begged her father to send her the Angel of Music that he had promised her as he lay dying. She pleaded him for companionship and for something to make her stand out; something to make her more noticeable than all of the other girls.
"I can help you, if you wish," a voice said, seemingly out of nowhere, interrupting her prayers. Christine was startled and looked around the room for the owner, but she saw no one.
"W-who's there?" she asked, rather timidly.
"Think of me as your Angel of Music," the voice, clearly male, answered. Christine wrinkled her nose.
"That's not very funny. Monsieur Buquet, is that you? Come out now or I'll tell Madame Giry you've been playing tricks on me!" she demanded.
"I can assure you I am not Monsieur Buquet. I doubt that fool has anything he can teach you or any decent companionship to offer," the voice responded with a disgusted snort. Christine raised an eyebrow at the ceiling, not knowing where else to look.
"What do you have to offer me?" she asked, crossing her arms skeptically.
"Someone intelligent to speak to, for starters; I think we share a…common interest," the "angel" answered.
"What would that be?" Christine asked.
"Music of course!" he replied. This piqued the little girl's interest.
"You like music too?" she asked.
"Do I!? I'm the Angel of Music! I know more about music than anyone else you'll ever meet!" the voice, her "angel" exclaimed proudly. Christine raised an eyebrow again.
"You sound quite young to be an angel. How old are you?" she asked, still skeptical.
"Older than you, that is all you ever need know," he answered. The little girl huffed in annoyance.
"Never mind that though. Now, do you want me to teach you what I know or not?" the angel asked sternly.
"Oh yes please!" Christine answered quickly, afraid that he would leave.
"Good. Then you must obey my every word and devote all the time you have to the lessons I give you. Is that understood?" he continued. Christine nodded emphatically.
"Yes, of course!" she paused, thinking. "May I see you?"
"No!" the angel exclaimed harshly. The girl jumped.
"B-but, Master," she said, suddenly timid again, "how will you teach me if I cannot see you?"
"I can see you, that is all that matters," the voice replied.
"Yes, Master," Christine said quietly.
"Now then, if you want to get anywhere in the world of opera, you must be able to sing. Can you do that, Christine?"
"Oh yes, my father always told me that I have a beautiful voice," the girl answered, beaming.
"I'll be the judge of that from now on," the angel said.
That was Christine's first encounter with the Phantom. The years seemed to fly by after that. She spent all her time studying ballet or training her voice that she scarce had time for anything else. She told no one of her mysterious teacher, for she knew they would only think her crazy. It wasn't until the day that the Opera Populaire was sold to Messieurs Firmin and Andre that her hard work finally seemed to pay off.
The day had been spent rehearsing for the upcoming production of Hannibal. Despite the pain in her body that came from hours of rehearsing her meager part as a slave girl, she never stopped pushing herself. The only real pain that she had to endure was Carlotta's voice assaulting her delicate ears. Christine was jealous of the cleaning ladies, who had brought wads of cotton with them and promptly stuffed them into their ears when the diva started singing. The Angel of Music had assured her that her spot in the limelight would come soon enough, but her patience was wearing thin.
She had been surprised to discover that her old childhood companion, Raoul, was the new patron of the opera house. He had been quite annoying when they were children, constantly following her around as though he was enamored with her, not that she could blame him. Still, he kept her entertained. In the years that had passed, he had become quite handsome and was now the Vicomte de Chagny. Christine wondered if he was married, then shook the thought away. Although he could certainly provide enough money for her to do whatever she wished in life, marriage was not ideal for a performer.
"Christine, you're staring," Madame Giry's daughter, Meg, whispered.
"It's Raoul. Before my father died, well I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts," Christine whispered back. No need to tell her friend that she had brushed off his affection.
Christine had been disappointed when the Vicomte had not recognized her, but she thought she hid it well. Oh well, surely he would recognize her when she became famous. She entertained herself with these thoughts, drowning out the sound of Carlotta singing—butchering—"Think of Me" to the new owners of the opera house. It was not until Meg screamed that she saw a piece of scenery fall, knocking the diva to the ground. Christine hid her amusement behind a mask of shock.
For years now, the Opera Populaire had been plagued by a mysterious entity known only as the Opera Ghost and the Phantom. Monsieur Lefevre had taken to giving him twenty-thousand francs a month to ensure that peace was kept. Still, whenever the Phantom did not get his way, things would go awry.
At the time, Christine had not made the connection between her angel and the mysterious Phantom. No, that revelation came later that night after her stunning performance in Hannibal, successfully stealing the attention away from Carlotta at last. She had been readying herself for bed, fully intent on ignoring Raoul's invitation to supper; she was tired and did not think she could stay awake through the mindless chatter he would no doubt inflict upon her. That was when she heard it—the voice that set her soul aflame—her Angel of Music.
Christine had felt a mixture of emotions when the Phantom drew her into the corridor behind the mirror and down into his lair. She was elated to finally see the face behind the voice of her angel; for as long as he had been teaching her he'd made it clear that she was never allowed to see his face. That must have been why he had chosen to wear a mask then, though she had not known at the time why it only covered a third of his face. Christine had also felt shock and fear with the realization that her angel was, in fact, the Phantom of the opera.
She remembered the thrill as he took her deeper into his secret home and the awe she felt as she took in everything around her. The man was a collector of fine things as well as an architectural genius and magician. Not only that, but the Phantom was handsome in a way that Raoul could never be—at least what she could see of him. His eyes burned with an intensity and adoration that Christine had yearned for since she had become a young woman. Every word, every touch, sent heat through her body and soul. She wanted him to worship her forever. She had fallen asleep in his bed—a bed fit for a queen—only to awake to the sound of gentle piano music.
It was then an idea came to her—maybe she could distract him enough to get a peek behind his mask. Would he be angry with her? Surely! Christine shrugged off that notion, thinking it impossible for her angel to be angry at her for very long. He did, after all, worship the ground she walked on. She sidled up to him and began to caress the uncovered parts of his face. His skin was pleasantly soft. Thankfully, she had paid attention to the other ballerinas in the opera house and knew a thing or two about how one was supposed to use her feminine wiles. When it seemed as though the Phantom was successfully distracted she began to peel his mask away. She only caught a glimpse of the redness beneath before she was knocked to the ground.
She tried putting on the face she used to use with her father whenever she was in trouble, but it seemed to have little effect on the Phantom. She sighed, picking up his mask from where it fell and holding it out for him to take. He took it quickly and put it back in place, his good mood ruined. Christine hid her disappointment. She had hoped that her angel had been so beautiful that he needed his mask to keep her from swooning at the sight of him, but now it was clear that his mask only hid a terrifying deformity. She scowled then. Who was he to treat her like that? She was a goddess compared to him and she would not tolerate such abuse! Surely she was good enough now without his teachings, she could walk away and never come back? But then, she thought, I could always be better. Christine smirked, a plan formulating in her head.
"Come. The two fools who run my theater will be missing you," the Phantom said. As he turned to grab Christine's arm she pushed past him roughly, startling him.
"I don't need help from the likes of you! If you're going to treat me like this, I will find a way out of here by myself!" she exclaimed, marching toward the stairs that lead down into the boat. She really hoped her plan worked, for she honestly had no clue how to get out.
"No! Stop! You'll be hurt if you try to get out alone!" the Phantom exclaimed. Christine sat in the boat, her back to him.
"I don't care! You're nothing but a monster!" she said harshly. She knew her plan was working when she heard a sharp intake of breath behind her. The Phantom choked back a sob and fell to his knees. He begged her for forgiveness and showered her with all the adoration he could give before she finally conceded. She knew then that he was wrapped tightly around her finger.
Erik watched the former love of his life from the shadows, silent as the death that followed her. Yes, he could smell the death on her even from his hiding spot; he knew she would not survive another day. It was just as well, she wasn't a young woman anymore. He snorted, surprised that someone with that much venom inside them could live so long. As he watched her stare into her mirror, his thoughts went back to when her face was fair enough to ensnare his heart and mask the cruelty that made up her soul. …
Despite the dominant air that he tried to have, he could not deny that Christine had him wrapped around her finger. He would have done anything for her and he tried to do so to the best of his ability. He had tried to get her the lead in Il Mudo, but those fools Firmin and Andre thought they could disobey him without suffering consequences. It was that night that Erik first saw a glimpse of the person that Christine really was. However, not even he could have anticipated the events that took place.
He had been running from Joseph Buquet, silently cursing himself for letting the fool catch a glimpse of him; he had never made that mistake before. Now, he feared, the man would not give up until he caught the infamous Opera Ghost. He thought he had lost him on the catwalk, when he heard a glottal stop.
Erik turned around in time to see the man fall from the catwalk, stopping just a few feet from the ground, courtesy of the noose around his neck. It appeared to be one of the nooses he used to scare people when they disobeyed him. He had never killed anyone with them, however; he had sworn never to kill again after he'd slain his master in self-defense when he was a boy. His eyes were drawn to the tiny figure who had been standing behind Monsieur Buquet—Christine.
Erik's eyes widened and his mouth fell open in horror at the sight of his love standing there in her undergarments—for she never would have been able to climb so high in a gown—panting heavily and looking down as the opera patrons screamed and fled the scene. How could his Christine, his lovely angel, have done such a thing? She looked up at him, no sign of guilt on her face.
"Run!" she whispered urgently and turned around, disappearing into the darkness. It did not occur to him then that Christine was capable of doing anything that got her what she wanted; if he had been captured, her career might have ended.
Erik had escaped to the roof of the opera house, basking in the icy, winter air. He tried to think. What would he do next? What would he say to Christine? He told himself that maybe it had been an accident, but deep down that answer didn't ring true. His night was only destined to get worse after that. He heard the door to the roof open and hid behind a statue. That night, he felt his heart shatter as he listened to his Christine and the Vicomte de Chagny profess their love for each other. How could she betray him so easily?
Erik felt the corners of his eyes begin to sting at the memory and blinked rapidly to fend off the tears that threatened to make an appearance. He remembered how he had spent the next month after that finishing his greatest work of art and planning his revenge. Christine was his and he'd be damned if he let anyone take her from him. She was all he had. Without her, his art meant nothing. His life meant nothing.
Erik's life had been a dark one from the moment he'd been born, part of his face deformed and crushed by the birthing process. His mother had loathed him so much that she'd sold him at the age of three to a wandering gypsy faire. At the age of five, he was rescued by a sixteen-year old Madame Giry. He had been rather tall and lean for his age at the time. Between that and the starvation and beatings, Madame Giry had mistaken him for at least ten.
From that moment on, she was his only companion, though a horrible one. She rarely came to visit him, leaving him lonely and curious in the depths of the opera house. He taught himself everything he knew, but he could not learn how to ignore the loneliness that plagued him every waking moment. The first time he had heard Christine's voice, she was merely seven and he was seventeen, but her voice ensnared him. He had devoted himself to her ever since then. When she grew into a woman of marriageable age, he could not stop himself from falling deeply in love with her.
Erik snorted again. How he could have loved such a spoiled brat was beyond him. He could not deny, however, that her voice had the power to enthrall anyone within hearing range. He became lost in the memory of the last time he had heard her sing: the night she had walked away from him forever. A pang shot through his heart at the memory when he remembered her kiss. He had cried then, having felt no love behind the kiss; knowing that she did it only so that he may let her go. He had, knowing then that she would never truly love him. As sorry as he felt for himself, he felt even worse for the Vicomte de Chagny, knowing that Christine would never truly love him either. She had played them both, one against the other, for her own amusement.
Erik reminded himself that it had not been entirely hopeless that night, for that was the night that he had been changed for the better. …
He had trudged dejectedly through the dark, Paris sewers; no particular destination in mind. Why he had not stayed to let the angry lynch mob kill him, he was unsure. The only thing that had ever given his life some semblance of meaning was his music, then Christine—now he had lost both. A multitude of thoughts swam in his dark mind.
Why had Christine kissed him? Was it to save Raoul? That was the only reasonable theory. Why would an angel kiss a loathsome monster such as him unless she felt she had no choice? What had she meant by giving him back the ring that was rightfully hers? Was it a symbol of goodbye? Or a way for him to remember her? Erik sobbed. What did it matter now?
The rejected Opera Ghost turned a corner and saw the dim glow of the world outside. He paused, staring for moments at the exit of the tunnel. He had not been outside without a mask for as long as he could remember, but he had left all his masks and cloaks behind in his cave. On the other hand, he longed for the night air and it was unlikely that anyone should pass by a sewer drain in the middle of the night.
Anxiously, he stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, until he was standing at the edge. It was snowing outside and the air felt—and smelled—so refreshing. Erik lifted his hand to reach out into the moonlight, when a chuckle a few feet away made him freeze. The startled Phantom looked towards the noise and was able to make out the outline of a person standing in the shadows nearby.
"Oh don't worry. I'm not here to harm you. I was merely observing your reaction," the person—a French man with an air of aristocracy in his voice—said. "Obviously, you haven't been outside in a while."
Erik did not move; he merely remained frozen in place. What did the stranger want of him?
"Oh do not be so afraid. I told you I mean no harm. I know who you are, Opera Ghost. Your reputation precedes you where I'm from," the man said, waving his hand nonchalantly. Erik raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean my reputation?" he asked, sounding surprisingly meek for a grown man.
The stranger stepped into the moonlight, a sly grin on his face. He was tall, about Erik's height, and well-built. His shoulder-length hair was an auburn color; his eyes were obscured by the shadow of his hat and he was dressed in very rich clothing in tones of maroon and gold.
"Among those of my kind, you are quite famous. You have a gift. Many think you would do well as one of us," he answered.
"What do you mean one of us?" Erik asked suspiciously. The stranger stepped closer.
"I feel your pain. I can smell it on you. It screams louder than a thousand banshees and begs to be silenced. I can silence it," he replied mysteriously. Erik was intrigued, but not sure exactly what the man meant.
"Go on," he urged slowly.
The stranger took off his hat, revealing eyes the same shade as his clothing and skin whiter than Erik's, which was not a common thing to see. He grinned wider, revealing strangely enlarged canines—all pearly white.
"Join the creatures of the night, Erik. You're already halfway there anyway. I can give you power, immortality, and other abilities that you could never even dream of!" he said, gesturing dramatically.
"Why would I want to live forever with a face even a mother could not love?" Erik asked bitterly. The stranger smiled more, like a Cheshire cat.
"Ah, but you won't! If you let me turn you, it'll heal your imperfections. All nosferatu are gifted with beauty only Greek gods could have!" he answered.
Erik's eyes narrowed as he thought about this proposition. He had the chance to be rid of his hideous deformity forever, but at what price?
"You wouldn't owe me anything except a few years to train you. I cannot very well leave you to wander without first showing you how to live as one such as I. After that, you are free to go where you wish," the stranger added as if he had read the Phantom's thoughts.
Erik was startled by this notion. Could the stranger possibly have read his mind? That wasn't possible was it? The Phantom stood there, lost in thought. Why not? He thought. What do I have to lose?