Phantom of the Opera/Prestige Crossover—Movie verse Prestige with mostly-Leroux POTO thrown in. A little bit AU.
It dawned a beautiful, chilly morning the 24th of November, 1871. Victorian England was just being to wake and stir its bustling citizens. Robert Angier pulled the brown leather gloves onto his hands as quickly as he could, standing just outside the entrance to his lovely flat, gazing at his even lovelier young wife. The newlyweds embraced for a long minute, then Angier pulled away, still smiling down. The smile that came back to him dazzled every nerve in his body, and Angier knew what true love was, for the twentieth time that day. It made him stupid and senseless, knocking every coherent thought out of his fluid mind with more punch than a physical blow. He did not mind the pain at all.
His beautiful, glorious wife could leave him speechless every day and he would never complain. Who needed language anyway, with those expressive eyes that he could drown in? Did this feel like drowning? He would probably never know, being an excellent swimmer as he was. Ah, he was getting off track again…she had a tendency to do that to him.
"My dear," he finally broke the perfect silence, heard her sigh. "You know I wouldn't care if we stood here like this all day, but Borden is waiting for me, rehearsal is waiting." The smile disappeared from her small face at the mention of his fellow magician. She turned and leaned against the doorway. Angier saw her lips quirk up and knew he was in for another pleading.
"Why can't I come?" Yes, he knew it…dear, perfectly predictable little wife, his wife. "Why must you always do things with Borden now, and not me? Before we married, I was a helper. I performed, Robert." Methinks the little wife doth protest too much.He chuckled.
Angier laid a gloved finger across her soft lips. "And you were the best as well. Darling, I've told you, I don't want you up there on the stage. It's much too dangerous-I-I don't want to see you hurt, to lose you." Good heavens, he was becoming unraveled at the very inkling of such an idea. He knew he was being too overprotective, but Angier could not help himself. She was his, and always would be.
"You aren't going to lose me," she cocked her head like a small bird, melting his fear. "And I'm going to keep badgering you until you let me help." She lifted a finger to his cheek and smiled again. "Crazy magician, you act as if I'm going to disappear. I'm yours, dear, until the end of time. I'll be there for you always."
He grinned stupidly at her wink. Women were not supposed to do those things! But he loved her more every time she broke society's rules. "Always is a long time, love. A little time away won't hurt too badly. I must be off, and you must drop such silly notions." He kissed her gently at the top of the stairs and floated down to the street.
He heard her call behind him, "I hope you think of a very special act for me, or else I shall be dreadfully disappointed!"
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Magician, he heard the young woman say, and his ears perked up. He pulled himself further into the shadows on the far side of the street and listened to the conversation. He was not really interested in it except for the fact that the man claimed to be a magician. Magician? This fellow was a young snap of a man. Why, he barely looked to be out of his teenager years, already married and settled down with a job.
The shadow's unseen lips lifted in a silent, half-subconscious snarl. Just another human with a perfect life, just another reminder of what he could never have. Thin fingers coated in black leather clung to the cold brick wall tightly. He watched in jealous sadness as the man walked away from his wife. If he had a wife, which he never would… he would never, ever let her go, much less leave her. That little imitation magician presumed too much of life, just because fate had shined on his face so fortunately. Always is a long time, the childish thing says. Well, always would never be long enough for me.
Walking away from a home too, the young man was. He is more mad than I ever thought of being, the shadow contemplated. To have a home someplace where life was not daily threatened, to feel the air on a perfect face, was a dream to the shadow. The only reality was the darkness of his mind, the horror of his life. Everywhere he turned there was no escaping the fact that he would never enjoy a warm hearth, a soft bed, a friendly gaze.
Every day he walked among them, though he did so with such secrecy that most never felt him. If they did, it was such an awful feeling, so cold and death-like. They never bothered him after registering that. Certainly no one came close to touching him, but that was his own doing. He hated being touched, loathed the very thought. When had a touch ever been more than a beating? When had a stroke ever failed to turn into a strike?
Alone. He walked alone. Was not there some poem about Death walking alone? He would have to remember to look that up, but for now he was distracted. The young man Robert was moving away down the street, and for some inexplicable reason, the shadow followed him. He wanted to see what this magician claimed to be, and who better to judge a magician than a legend among magicians? Down the alleyways he padded, silent as a ghost and twice as dark. His long black cape swished about his booted feet, curling around him like a shield from the rising sun.
Oh, bother it all. The sun was indeed rising, its bright morning orb blazing down into his eyes. He cringed back from the piercing light, for it pained his eyes greatly. A thin hand came up to block the light, pulling the hat lower over his forehead. Much better. Then he slipped out of the alley and into the thinly-populated street, never losing sight of the young magician.
The fledgling magician must have purchased the furthest flat from his working place, the shadow pondered as he stalked. They were taking an extended tour of London, winding in and out of traffic that was steadily growing thicker. The ghostlike figure almost gave up following the young man, ready to give up this small obsession and leave, when Robert turned and entered an older building. The massive oak doors clicked shut behind him.
Doors never stopped him. He found his way into the darkly lit, cavernous hole, useless doors and curious eyes left behind. It took less time than most to adjust to the darkness, sharp eyes spotting a faint gleam of candle light. Silent and not missing a step, the shadow slid further into the dark recesses of the theater. Yes, this was a theater, and he felt a twinge of familiarity.
This theater was not filled with singing and dancing, but it held entertainers all the same. He could hear the soft murmurs of their voices, deep baritones and lighter tenors. How he prided himself on judging a man's song by a word. Not that these men here below him would ever be singers… It had only taken him a few minutes to find the rafters, and he now sat above them, reclined against a thick support.
What he saw was just a small bit surprising. Two young men and an older gentleman were the only humans on the poorly lit stage. They were in a small triangle, arguing. Robert was one of them, his face red and his anger directed at the other young man. Borden? The shadow wondered lazily, flicking a speck of dust from his evening dress coat. If this pack of squabbling men was typical of his fellow magicians, he was disappointed.
"Angier, you should let her help if she wants to," the young man was protesting. "Your wife lives for the stage-" Whatever he planned to say next was cut off.
"And how would you know that? Hm?" Robert Angier retorted, his eyes squinting with suspicion. "Are you really so concerned for her? Leave us alone, Borden, and stick to your little rubber ball."
"Jealous?" Borden laughed and bounced said ball on the floor. The shadow watched from above, watched the ball bounce up and down, up and down. "I'd say, more like obsessed." The older gentleman cleared his throat and threw out an arm to stop the huffing Angier. "Obsession's dangerous, Robert," Borden goaded, not taking the hint of the wiser man.
"Stow it!" the greybeard finally hissed, deep voice echoing through the quiet auditorium. The shadow grinned in the darkness; European squabbling was something that he had missed in Persia. He halfway wondered if the dying sport of dueling would break out here. It would be pleasant to not be the one killing, for a change…
He observed them as they went through their tricks, one right after another. His softly glowing eyes caught every slight of hand; his mind recognized every trick of the morning. Amateurs, as I thought, he smirked, though no one saw it. He also spotted the intense dislike between the two young magicians, and he noticed the way they tried to upstage each other.
He had nowhere to go in London; no one wanted his presence, so he remained here, far above the bickering entertainers, listening and laughing silently at their efforts. His passionate, showman qualities led him to sympathize with Angier; Borden could not generate anticipation to save his life. However, the shadow still despised Angier for what the young man had in life, and he could see in Borden emptiness similar to his own. Borden was the better magician as well.
Hm, it was a decidedly odd thought, who was more like him? Neither was, he firmly reminded himself. The shadow could never compare himself to other men, simply because he was not like other men. Monsters, perhaps, but not men. Forget these dark thoughts, he growled softly in the still, stifling air. He pulled out the pocket watch and checked the hour, surprised to find it already announcing the afternoon. Enough time wasted watching these fools, he decided.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Angier stormed down the hallway, his mind fuming with Borden's latest idiocy. The man was just envious of what he had, and was trying to ruin him because of it. Well, Angier was no man to sit back and passively take a punch. "I won't stand for it. He envies us, that's all."
"Does he now? And why should he not?"
Angier started, whirling to look up at the Voice that suddenly spoke to him. Strangely enough, it had come from the rafters. "Who's there? I say, man, speak up and identify yourself."
It must have been his imagination, but Angier felt a cool chill waft over his face when the Voice spoke again. This time, it came from behind his left shoulder. "Man?" it asked, inquisitively pleasant and polite, but then went cold again. "No man, but a fellow magician. Well met, Robert Angier." The young Englishman whirled on his heel, searching for the mysterious owner of the voice. He found nothing.
"You know who I am," he tried to smile into the darkness, but truth be told, Angier was becoming unnerved. "I'm afraid I haven't caught your name. Are you here looking for employment?"
"No employment. I watched your tricks today…" Was that mannequin talking?
"And…?" Angier was becoming frustrated.
"Child's play." Angier's face twisted in righteous indignation, and the Voice laughed quietly. "You do very well with building up your tricks, even the vanishing is entertaining." It paused, as if carefully watching Angier for his reaction. The young magician stayed still in the dark hallway. "You have trouble with the last act…your prestige lacks power."
"Well, it's only the hardest part of the entire show," Angier ground out, and was rewarded with another laugh. "Making something disappear is easy-"
"You must bring it back. You must make it reappear. But Monsieur Angier, you let too many things disappear, fly away, leave. One day you will let something very dear disappear, and it will not come back to you, because you were not ready." Was it his imagination, or did the Voice sound angry with him?
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Angier protested. "And why do I stand here talking with a disembodied voice? I have better things-"
"You are too flippant!" the Voice thundered. The walls seemed to shudder under the unearthly power of its rage. "Too flighty, yes. You do not see what you have before you, visible and real." It dropped to a soft whisper that echoed all around him. "Your kind is like that. You will never see what you have until it is gone."
"What are you talking about?" Angier demanded, growing angry himself. "Show yourself."
"You would not like that, I think," it told him cheerfully. "But I will show you something of myself." The rafters rustled above him, and then without warning, a long dark shape dropped to the floor in front of him. Angier let out a startled shout and raised his arms to protect himself.
When he lowered his limbs, the other man was standing in front of him, head cocked to one side. Angier shivered as he took in the gleaming black mask. This man-anyway it looked like a man-was endlessly tall and thin, towering over the young magician, dressed all in black evening clothes and perfectly still. Angier could not find his own voice. "See now? You do not like what you see," it told him. "So I will disappear."
One long gloved hand stretched out and brushed against Angier's wrist. Angier blinked back shock when his entire hand grew ice cold, and he pulled it to himself in terror. His eyes shot open and he was startled to find no eyes staring back at him. The absence of those eyes was frightening in itself. Where had it gone?
"I do tend to come back after I disappear, to the regret of most."
Angier spun on his boot, heart slamming against his sternum.
The frightening creature stood not but two feet from Angier, holding the young magician's pocket watch and staring down at the timepiece. Angier was frozen in place, and he flinched when two golden eyes rose to meet his gaze. The fiery orbs glowed in the semidarkness with an intensity that made Angier feel like one of the rabbits he drew out of his hat.
"Time…" it spoke with cordial friendliness, smooth and angelic voice never wavering. "You speak of time enough. Time disappears, Monsieur Angier. And no matter the level of magician, or sorcerer, or illusionist, one cannot make it reappear." It tossed him the watch, and Angier barely caught the expensive clock before it shattered on the floor. He glanced back up at the stranger, and almost cried out.
It was gone! Again! Angier looked every direction for those glowing yellow eyes, but darkness was all he found. Just as he was despairing of ever finding the other man again, the voice moved past his left ear. Thin and ghostlike, it raised the hackles on the back of his neck.
"Always will never be long enough, Monsieur Angier. Do not let her go."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Time had passed, and with it many, many changes.
Lord Caldwell sank back into his plush office chair and took a moment to pat himself on the back. Borden was practically in the hangman's noose, and Borden's little daughter was almost his. All in all, those gambles had paid off. Revenge would be his at last, sweet revenge.
"You have improved your lot in life, I see."
I do tend to come back after I disappear, to the regret of most. The quiet, accented words scared him more than he would ever admit, and Lord Caldwell turned to see a tall, dark Angel of Death in his study, gleaming black mask tilted down to look at him. He sat stunned, remembering that meeting years ago, and finally ventured, "You? You again? My word, how did you find me? After all these years?"
"You should know better than to ask a magician for his tricks," the shadow replied, seeping across the room and gracefully falling to the couch. Lord Caldwell gaped at the creature in front of him. At second glance, it was ragged and muddy, almost skeletal in form. The yellow eyes were glazed over with dead emptiness, dead soul-less eyes that slid across his study. Caldwell shivered at that gaze.
"What on earth happened, man?"
"No man," it barked a short, grating laugh. "I did what I had to do, what I once told you never to do. You should disregard my old advice unless you want to meet your untimely demise. It only destroys you, Englander. It was and is destroying me."
Lord Caldwell leaned away from that smell of living death. "Demise might be preferable to what you have." The hopelessness of the once beautiful voice was unsettling, and he wanted nothing more than to be rid of this terrifying apparition.
"That can always be arranged," the ghost chuckled, not a friendly laugh by any stretch of the imagination. "Hanging on… I once told you that one should never let something disappear without being sure of bringing it back. Well, Erik was wrong." Erik? No time to dwell on the name, for it was speaking again. "Hanging on has destroyed everything we ever held dear, has it not? Not obsession…love…and now we pass on at last." The laugh that followed was empty and lifeless. The young magician-turned-noble regarded the older with open fear.
"What on earth have you done?"
"I let her go."
A bit different work than I usually do, but I was intrigued by the thought of two very obsessive magicians meeting each other. They actually have some similarities. Robert Angier and Erik, both magicians, both in love, both deprived of their loved one, both obsessed and jealous, and both destroying their lives.Though Erik is definitely the master magician.
This was a one shot on obsession. Sometime between Persia and Paris, Erik visits England and runs into Angier. Time was a little warped to fit their stories together, but not by much. Both are Victorian magicians in the late 1800s. And obviously, Erik doesn't kick the bucket right after the Paris fiasco.
Basically, if the story was too confusing, Erik sees Angier taking his wife and home for granted, reprimands Angier for this, and advises him never to let her go, being cryptic Erik all the way. Eventually, during his stint in Paris, Erik learns to let his obsession for Christine go, but he is too late in realizing this, and his life is ruined. (Not that he had a great one to begin with…) Caldwell, aka Angier, has seemingly won his battle, but if you've seen the movie, his obsession is destroying him. He's ignored Cutter, and likely as not he's ignoring Erik's new advice, which won't lead to the greatest end…
Review if you'd like. The author wouldn't mind a bit. Honestly. Truly.
Oh, and for those reading F. F. of S., the next chapter is over half written, soon to be out.