A/N: Sorry for any OOCness or Mary-Sues. No flames or thorns, s'il vous plait!
This is the longest chapter that I've ever written for a story. It's still not long by most standards, but oh well. I feel accomplished. *EATS ICE CREAM IN CELEBRATION*
Also, for purposes of the story, I have Piangi not having died, but having barely survived the Punjab Lasso hanging by the Phantom. I know, he probably looked dead in every production of the musical ever made, but hey, I wanted Piangi to return and be the male lead singer in the opera in this story for no freaking reason at all. I guess Piangi is my favorite minor character? I know, not a good excuse.
I DO NOT OWN PHANTOM OF THE OPERA, LES MIS, OR ANY RELATED TITLES. I ALSO DO NOT OWN, "MUSIC OF THE NIGHT." THE LAST FEW LINES TO THAT SONG WERE CHANGED FOR THIS CHAPTER.
IF I DID OWN EITHER OF THOSE TITLES, NOBODY WOULD HAVE DIED AND I WOULD USE THEM AS MY PERSONAL SHIP PUPPETS.
19 Years Later…Paris, France…January 7, 1831
It was a rainy, gloomy evening in Paris. Leaves blew in front of the Opera Populaire from the nearby Jardin du Luxembourg, and rain was lightly showering upon the city, pitter-pattering on the shingles of the roofs and running down in trails to form puddles on the cobblestone streets. The dim mood for the weather did nothing to dampen the spirits of the bourgeois, whose gilt carriages were making their rounds around the circle in front of the Opera Populaire and dropping off finely dressed ladies in silken dresses with fluttering parchment fans and society men on the ladies' arms. One carriage in particular bore the Pontmercy family coat of arms on its side, red, black, with a golden griffon with its wings spread and "Semper Eadem," the family motto, written on it.
A golden-haired man stepped out of the Pontmercy carriage, and smoothed the front of his red suit-coat with his hands. He held out one of his tanned hands, which was grasped by a lace-gloved one from the interior of the carriage. A young lady stepped precariously from the carriage on the arm of the man, who led her to the great wooden doors of the opera house. A doorman was there to open the door, and collected their tickets to the show.
"Lucky indeed," the girl whispered, leaning to the ear of the man with her as they ascended the grand marble staircase, "are we, Uncle Enjolras, for these tickets!"
Uncle Enjolras smiled and nodded at his goddaughter. "Your father was quite generous about this."
"Oh, it's just something he does. It's his and mama's anniversary, and they had other engagements," the girl, Therese, answered. Enjolras blushed. He definitely wasn't good enough friends with Marius to have this conversation with Marius' daughter. "And after the near-murder of Signor Piangi, which he barely survived, three years ago, it's good that the Opera has been able to reopen, with the new opera 'Anna Bolena.'"
At the door to the box that they had rented out for the performance, Enjolras paused before the doorman opened the box for them. He dropped his voice to a whisper to avoid detection, "This play is about monarchy, you know," and when the man opened the door for them, "thank you." The doorman nodded and closed the door behind them. Therese sat down in the polished, golden, red velvet chair and smoothed out the bows on the skirt of her dress with one hand while reaching for her silk ivory-blade fan.
Enjolras continued, "As I was saying before, this play is about monarchy."
"Yes," Therese nodded in understanding.
"I don't want you to get ideas after this play," Enjolras reminded her, gently touching her on the arm. "Monarchy is still bad. You know that."
Therese rolled her eyes. "Of course I know, Uncle Enjolras. You remind me every day." A noise quickly turned their eyes to the newly buffed wooden stage. In front of the red satin curtains on the stage stepped two middle-aged men in fine dress.
"Monsieur Firmin and I are glad to have you return for the grand reopening of our opera house," Monsieur Andre announced to the audience with a sweeping gesture. "Tonight, we are glad to present the new opera by renowned Italian composer Gaetano Donizetti, 'Anna Bolena,' with recovering Signor Piangi and Signora Carlotta Giudicelli returning to play the main roles."
"And with that, let the opera begin!" Firmin continued as he and his grey-haired counterpart stepped off of the stage. The conductor, Reyer, lifted his baton, and the whole section hoisted up their instruments. The curtains slid like snakes to the side as it revealed the gilt Tudor-Era scene that had been crafted for the performance.
Therese and Enjolras sat there through the first two thirds of Act One enjoying the excellent music and drama and sat slowly roasting in Box 5. In the third scene of Act One, the man playing Smeaton pulled out a locket from his breast and sang about how he was to return the stolen item. A noise resonated and the actor who played Smeaton went and hid behind a lady's changing screen on the corner part of the stage. At that time, Enjolras tapped her arm gently. "I'll be back in a moment, Therese," he whispered, gesturing discreetly to the other side of the opera house room at the managers' box. "I have to go to Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Andre's box over there." Therese shook her head in consent, and Enjolras exited the box as he made his way through the walkways to the managers' box. Therese set her fan down and shivered as an unusually eerie coolness settled in the atmosphere around her. If she looked, she could see Enjolras in his red vest talking in hushed tones to the managers. Her godfather, the charming negotiator whom her father's friend, Grantaire, referred to as Apollo for his Grecian statue-carved looks, could convince a cat out of its mouse.
Suddenly, Therese gasped as a leather-gloved hand weaved its way around her face and over her mouth, while an arm curled itself around her torso, holding her in a firm grip. She struggled, and thumped her foot on the ground, trying to create noise to attract attention. However, her attempts were futile, as the person only held tighter. Strangely enough, Therese felt an aura of calmness surrounding the person who held her to their body, lifting her out of the chair to her feet.
"DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX FIVE WAS TO BE KEPT EMPTY?!" the person holding her down, now evidently a man, demanded, his voice resonating around the opera house.
Now, that got everybody's attention. The actors on stage glanced up at the box in horror, recognition dawning on all of their faces and pure anger and annoyance on Carlotta's face. The managers looked up from their conversation with Enjolras, and their eyes widened when they noticed that Therese was being held captive by the Opera Ghost, back to haunt them again. They tapped a retreating Enjolras' shoulder and pointed eagerly to the box that he was headed back to. When Enjolras saw Therese struggling against a man dressed all in black with half a mask on his face, he took off in a sprint to try and rescue Therese.
The Phantom saw this as well, and he threw one of his infamous Punjab lassoes to a golden hook on the side of the new chandelier. He held her waist tighter, and, just as Enjolras crested the threshold of the box, jumped atop the ledge and swung off over the audience with Therese. Terrified audience members screamed, and husbands tried to cover their wives and children in instinctive protection. Enjolras stood on the ledge of the box, only able to stare after his goddaughter and her kidnapper.
Therese closed her eyes when she realized in a split second that her and the Phantom where headed for a stained glass mural on the wall; their angle and velocity allowed for no other destination. It was an image of a red-haired opera singer not unlike La Carlotta. Therese wrapped her legs around the Phantom, who held her even tighter as they crashed through the stained glass and disappeared into the stone wall behind it, effectively shattering the image of La Carlotta.
It was one of the Phantom's secret passageways, a tubular metal slide that seemed to go on for forever, to Therese, at least. She nuzzled her face into the Phantom's chest as they slid farther down into the catacombs of the opera house. Eventually, Therese dared to peek out from her hiding place and grunted as they landed on a stone platform surrounded by a vast glossy lake. The Phantom rowed her in a small gondola around the lake until they reached a subterranean home. Therese then realized that she had been so surprised that she had forgotten to ask questions or even resist her kidnapper.
She was all too familiar with the stories of the Phantom; the stories were still fresh in her mind from three years prior when Signor Piangi had nearly been killed and Christine Daae, an aspiring young soprano, had been kidnapped. Three weeks after that, the papers had announced that the Phantom was dead. Apparently not.
"Why did you bring me here?" Therese demanded, stomping over to the Phantom, who threw his black cape to the side with a flourish. The Phantom didn't speak, but he only stepped over to the old yet majestic piano and started to play the tunes to a soft song. After an introduction, he started to sing.
~o~
"Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination
Silently the senses abandon their defenses….
Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor,
Grasp it; sense it, tremulous and tender.
Turn your face away from the garish light of day!
Turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light!
And listen to the music of the night.
Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams!
Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before!
Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar!
And you live as you've never lived before.
Softly, deftly, music shall surround you.
Feel it, hear it, closing in around you.
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind.
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight;
The darkness of the music of the night.
Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world!
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!
Let your soul take you where you long to be;
Only then can you belong to me.
Floating, falling, sweet intoxication,
Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation.
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in
To the power of the music that I write;
The power of the music of the night."
~o~
The exhaustion and exertion of energy from the evening's unexpected turn of events made her faint into the Phantom's arms. He staggered under her slight weight for a moment, and then traipsed over the red and silver swan bed and lowered her into it, just like he had to Christine over three years ago. This girl was not Christine, not by any means, facially or emotionally for all he knew. The Phantom knew nothing about her, other than that she was the daughter of the Baron du Pontmercy, was named Therese, had sat in his box, and was currently sleeping with a smile on her face in his bed. Strangely enough, he felt more spiritually connected to her than he had to Christine, which made him tremble in fear as he stroked stray strands of Therese's sun-kissed, artificially curled, golden hair. It wasn't Christine's long, naturally curly brown hair. He didn't even know if this girl could sing like his angel Christine could. She certainly, in his eyes, was not as beautiful as Christine, who was still the object of his unquenchable desire, fascination, and obsession.
"It was Christine who made my song take flight,
But you can help me make the music of the night."