Aaaw, thanks you four! Love your reviews!!
I'm sorry, I forgot to specify it on even though I did on imdb or the other Phantom forum I've got this story on. Word of warning - "Raoul seems even more of a pansy than usual." - Hehehehe, you don't wanna be knocking Raoul around me. ;)
Chapter Fourteen.
Fletcher Dumas held Christine de Chagny's arm protectively, warily looking around at the crowd milling the street.
"Ansel," he told his brother, "Go get the carriage quickly,"
Ansel nodded and took off down the road, while Fletcher led Christine a little way down where it was quieter. He fumbled with his jacket nervously, and finally pulled out a cigarette and his lighter, "Do you mind, Christine?" he asked, but she shook her head slightly, her thoughts elsewhere.
He lit the cigarette and took a drag, breathing easier as his nerves began to relax. He realised startled just after his hand stilled, that he had been trembling slightly before. But was it any wonder? His closest friend from childhood had been sentenced to death! He leant against the wall in a casual manner, trying to conceal the fact that he needed to lean against something before he slid down to the ground in shock.
He had known Raoul all of his life. His own parents were one of the wealthiest in France, and so it was inevitable that if the adults rubbed shoulders, their children would follow suit. Fletcher had been two years younger than Raoul, but for some reason that had never been an issue. And so for years they had been inseparable until they reached their late adolescence, and competition and rivalry settled in. Having drifted apart they lived their separate lives, Fletcher only hearing from gossip about the Phantom of the Opera scandal, and his childhood friend marrying a young singer. He had watched Raoul fall from grace absentmindedly, until he heard the horrifying news that he had murdered his brother. And when a letter was sent from Raoul, pleading for Fletcher to come see him, of course he could not refuse.
"Please," Raoul had said through the bars of his cell, "You are the only one of them I can trust, who knows exactly what they are like. Life is going to be hell for Christine, Fletcher please look out for her…"
Fletcher had put a cigarette to his mouth, and blew a smoke ring, "Did you do it on purpose?"
Raoul blinked and swallowed despondently for a moment, then his eyes met Fletcher's with iron, "No!"
Fletcher took one last drag, then handed it to Raoul through the bars, who took it gratefully, "I wouldn't blame you if you had though…Of course I'll help you,"
Raoul closed his eyes to hold back the rising tears as relief swept over him – that atleast one thing in this tumultuous affair was taken care of. He breathed in the smoke with as much satisfaction as he could, "Merci, Dumas,"
And so he had been true to his word, and with his younger brother married to her best friend Meg Giry, he had his support too. Because Raoul asked him, he had tried to keep Christine away from the court sessions – even at risk of injury. He had looked out for her, tried to cheer Raoul's son up, had tried to keep her hopes intact…
He took a drag of his cigarette now, pushing back the immense grief he felt that the same person who he had shared his youth with was having his life severed in his prime years…Raoul had always been the romantic fool, always had the simple dream of having a wife and family…
He noticed Christine tentatively backing away to hide behind him, and he turned to see the reason why. A man in his middle years, with a stomach bulging over his trousers meandered up with a jeering grin, "Vicomptess, now that your husband is nearly expired, will you be looking for another man of wealth?"
Fletcher's mouth curled in distaste, and he gently pushed her back, as he stepped forward, "If you have anything to say Monsieur, I suggest you say it to me,"
"Ah," the man smirked, "Have you found another fool already? Might I say Madame, I am impressed with your taste, atleast this one looks potent,"
Fletcher went to lunge forward, but Christine took him by the arm, "Fletcher, please – I just want to go home,"
Fletcher composed himself and turned, taking her arm, but the damned man kept on following them, making lewd comments. Finally with a snarl, Fletcher spun around and swinging his arm, his fist connected with the man's nose. The man went down with a thud, and Fletcher turned to Christine, "I apologise for you having to see that – ah look, my brother has just come back. He will take you to the carriage," he took his coat off and handed it to Ansel, nodding as his brother took her away.
He turned back to the man, folding the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows as the man stumbled back to his feet.
"What kind of sick, twisted freak likes to taunt a distressed young woman?" Fletcher spat angrily.
"What kind of friend likes to philander with someone's wife?" the man sneered back, "Everybody knows your reputation as a playboy, Dumas –"
Fletcher was about to swing another punch when suddenly the man was pulled back and slammed into the nearby wall. Fletcher watched in shock as a hooded man took hold of the man's arm, bending it dangerously behind his back.
"You so much as go near that girl again, and I will break every other bone in your body, which I must say, will take longer to heal than this arm," the hooded man sneered.
The victim breathed in heavily, pleading pathetically, but with a disturbing crack the man cried out in agony as his arm was broken. As soon as the hooded one released him, he ran off as fast as he could, nursing his arm.
The hooded man then turned to Fletcher, his face oddly neutral and blank of any emotion, despite the fact he had temporarily disabled that man. Fletcher took a step forward when he spied a scrap of white underneath the dark hood of the man's cloak – was it a mask?
A flicker of a memory whispered through Fletcher's mind, and for a moment he had frozen as he realised he had seen this man before…
It was many years ago, true, but it had rocked the foundation of Parisian society – when the Opera Populaire was destroyed. Fletcher had been there at that last performance with his brother, sister and Mother. He had seen the object of Raoul's affections in the arms of the criminal the police were watching for, their voices entwined in a dark and richly beautiful melody. The topic of the opera was obvious – for who did not know who Don Juan was? And Parisian high society sat half scandalised, half intrigued at the preposterously tempting lyrics.
"When will the blood begin to race? The sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames at last, consume us…?" Christine was singing, and Fletcher laughed uneasily, turning to Ansel.
"What do you think?" he asked, but for some reason his brother was too intrigued to take notice of Fletcher.
"Sssh…" Coralie vaguely hushed her brother, and Fletcher turned to her, surprised to see her almost hypnotised.
He turned back to the opera taking place, watched as Mademoiselle Daae rested in the man's embrace – was this all part of the act? Fletcher's eyes looked up to Raoul in Box Five, the Vicompte's mouth agape in shock…Fletcher did not think Christine's behaviour was part of the act after seeing that…
"…Lead me, save me from my solitude…" the man's lustre and craving from moments before had died down, replaced with a broken voice of tragedy and yearning.
"Christine – that's all I ask of you!"
"This isn't part of the act," Fletcher said uneasily, sensing upcoming calamity, not liking it at all.
He turned to his brother, "Ansel!" and took his arm, shaking him.
His brother jerked, his eyes suddenly seeming to waken, and he looked at Fletcher, "Wh…What?"
Suddenly they both heard their Mother and sister cry out, mingling with the horrified screams of the rest of the audience. He turned to Coralie, her gloved hand over her mouth and then back up at the two performers and had to repress his own cry. Christine had torn the mask off the man's face – revealing a marred and horribly disfigured face, which was darkening with humiliation – and betrayal.
Fletcher took his sister's hand, "We are going,"
"Wait," she pulled her hand away from him, "What's going to happen?"
The disfigured man suddenly snarled and turned, in an instant, cutting a length of rope.
"What…Why did he – ?" Fletcher's question died when it answered itself, as he heard rattling coming from above him. He only had a moment to grasp that the chandelier above them was going to crash down.
"MOVE!" panicking, he hauled his sister up, and shoved her and his Mother to safety. He turned and grabbed his brother's arm, dragging him along as quick as he could as they ran with the crowd. He barely noticed his Mother sobbing as the sickening crash of the mass of lights became heard, he was just concerned with getting them to safety.
"She's gone!" he heard Ansel say in fright, and he turned his eyes back to the stage. His brother was right – Christine and that disfigured man had disappeared, a trapdoor opened on the floor of the stage. Utter chaos and pandemonium was taking place around them, and he held on to his Mother as she clutched him, sobbing into his waistcoat.
"Where the hell are you going?" he cursed his brother, as Ansel began to run off.
"I need to make sure Meg is safe!" Ansel called back.
Typical damn fool, Fletcher swore at him, always trying to play the hero with the pretty blonde ballerina he has just recently become infatuated with…
Even though the years had passed, that memory was still fresh in his mind. Having to calm his sister down and convince his Mother that Ansel would be alright, all the while panicking himself…
Two words came to mind as he saw the hooded man – Opera Ghost…
He moved forward, desperate to speak to him, and fastened his pace when he saw the Phantom of the Opera turn on his heel. Fletcher chased him for all but two moments, until he vanished when he fell into the crowd.
Fletcher circled around frantically, trying to catch a glimpse of him, but to no avail. But a new and desperate thought came to him – what did he want with Raoul's wife now?
He trudged back to the carriage disheartened and unsettled. His brother was waiting beside the buggy, Christine was seated comfortably inside.
Ansel stepped over concerned, "What is it Fletcher? You look pale,"
Fletcher looked at his younger brother for a moment thoughtfully. He then swallowed, turning his head away and changing his mind on what he had been about to say, "What do you think Ansel? My longest friend is about to meet the gallows,"