Betrayal Is The Highest Form of Flattery
By Deep Roller
A/N: Oooh...suspense! Okay, here goes chapter one. Yes, indeed. I hope you all like it, the prologue got some positive feedback so far. Keep up with that guessing, maybe you'll figure out whodunnit!! I actually first wrote this story about two years ago, but now since I'm taking all these neat (and super hard) AP classes, I can spruce it up all fancy like and make it make sense. Lucky you! The original paper copy makes little or no sense. Well, into the Opera with you!
Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera, I don't own the characters, so nyeh to you! I own any characters that you don't recognize, you know, the ones that make little bit parts.
Chapter One: Preparations
The water lulled the boat under her feet as the loamy smell of the cavern took on a rather desperate scent. The man in the boat beside her put a protective arm around her waist as they rowed powerfully for the opposite shore. A trailing voice followed the boat like an anguished wraith. "Christine! Christine..." It called, the one word infused with such terrible emotions that it made her tremble. She turned to hide her face in the lapels of her rescuer when suddenly...
"Come ON Christine! We'll be late! Hurry!" She had snapped again, she realized, had had one of her spells. They had stopped about a year back, but now had reasserted themselves. Christine de Chagny was sitting before her vanity mirror, a brush frozen mid-stroke through her hair. She looked in disbelief at her reflection, as if she were looking at a whole nother person.
"I'm coming, Raoul!" She called back, her voice a bit unsure. What was making these flashbacks dance into her mind? She asked herself, gathering her hair into a chignon at the nape of her neck. The answer lay unobtrusively on her dressing table. A note, scrawled in the hasty handwriting of someone bent on business, inviting "Monsieur de Chagny and wife" to the premier production of "Ciya Citadel", the latest opera acquired. Raoul had been delighted, but Christine was having her doubts. And no wonder! To return to the same place that had troubled her all those years ago, to the tragedy still so fresh in her mind. She had begun to have small spells, remembering the past, and remembering the terrible tragedy she had incited. Was he still down there? The paper had proclaimed him dead, but was Erik truly gone? Quite the survivor, she didn't doubt for a second that he still lurked beneath the Opera, waiting, dejected, alone... Shaking her head violently, she chided herself and rose to pad into the drawing room, gathering her coat and sliding on her warmest pair of gloves. As she emerged, Raoul gave a small, playful half bow.
"We should be going unless we want to miss Act One. Now, I know you're anxious, but I've got this in case anything actually should go....amiss." Raoul flashed a small silver Derringer into the light, confirming to Christine that she wasn't the only one with doubts. The vicomté escorted his young wife into the waiting carriage, the winter chill traipsing across her cheeks. The driver, bundled against the cold with a heavy scarf swathed across his neck, stood beside his horse in waiting. Christine lifted one gloved hand to grip the rail and hoisted herself in, feeling Raoul follow in one swift motion. Once they were in the carriage, the driver shut the door with one swift slam. Limber as a monkey, he leapt onto the seat and gathered the horse's reins. Clucking, he set the carriage into motion.
Through the cobbled cold of Paris they went, Raoul looking into the night and Christine once more sinking into her dark reverie. Erik could still be there, and he could be angry with her. But what if he had died? That would be a release for him, she felt. But somehow a lingering suspicion tickled her conscience. "Raoul, do you firmly believe Erik dead?"
"Of course, darling. Now, I know you have your flighty fancies, but you must rest assured that he is gone. There can be no further thought for it. Tonight is for Opera, not haunted thoughts." Her husband's remarks seemed to incur that there would be no further discussion, and when Christine bowed her head to resume her train of thought, he gave her cheek a comforting stroke. As they neared the majestic, lighted House, her doubts welled within her, surging to claim a spot at the surface. Anything could happen tonight, anything at all. The dead could rise, she felt. Stepping out of the carriage, she happened to glance at the horse, and her breath stopped in her throat.
"César?" She choked out, recognizing the clean lines of the white stallion. "Is that César?" Whispering, she approached closer, heedless of anything else. The animal let out a glad whinny of recognition, his throaty call familiar in her ears. It couldn't be so. Erik's prize theft, his horse...a carriage beast? Used for taxi? Maybe that meant he really was gone, and they had raided his underground home, taking back his possessions. Or maybe it meant she needed another look at the driver. But she felt her husband's arm encircle her elbow, leading her gently but firmly away, and she watched as the reins tapped lightly against César's back and the horse moved deftly out into the night.
"What's the matter, love?" Raoul asked without a terrible degree of concern as they made their way toward the Opera.
"Oh nothing, I just thought I saw someone I knew..." And in a few steps they had reached the grand entrance to the looming building, the uncertainty rising to a crescendo.
Out in the night, the carriage clopped away through the coldest night in Paris, the hooded driver's cloak flapping in the night breeze.
By Deep Roller
A/N: Oooh...suspense! Okay, here goes chapter one. Yes, indeed. I hope you all like it, the prologue got some positive feedback so far. Keep up with that guessing, maybe you'll figure out whodunnit!! I actually first wrote this story about two years ago, but now since I'm taking all these neat (and super hard) AP classes, I can spruce it up all fancy like and make it make sense. Lucky you! The original paper copy makes little or no sense. Well, into the Opera with you!
Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera, I don't own the characters, so nyeh to you! I own any characters that you don't recognize, you know, the ones that make little bit parts.
Chapter One: Preparations
The water lulled the boat under her feet as the loamy smell of the cavern took on a rather desperate scent. The man in the boat beside her put a protective arm around her waist as they rowed powerfully for the opposite shore. A trailing voice followed the boat like an anguished wraith. "Christine! Christine..." It called, the one word infused with such terrible emotions that it made her tremble. She turned to hide her face in the lapels of her rescuer when suddenly...
"Come ON Christine! We'll be late! Hurry!" She had snapped again, she realized, had had one of her spells. They had stopped about a year back, but now had reasserted themselves. Christine de Chagny was sitting before her vanity mirror, a brush frozen mid-stroke through her hair. She looked in disbelief at her reflection, as if she were looking at a whole nother person.
"I'm coming, Raoul!" She called back, her voice a bit unsure. What was making these flashbacks dance into her mind? She asked herself, gathering her hair into a chignon at the nape of her neck. The answer lay unobtrusively on her dressing table. A note, scrawled in the hasty handwriting of someone bent on business, inviting "Monsieur de Chagny and wife" to the premier production of "Ciya Citadel", the latest opera acquired. Raoul had been delighted, but Christine was having her doubts. And no wonder! To return to the same place that had troubled her all those years ago, to the tragedy still so fresh in her mind. She had begun to have small spells, remembering the past, and remembering the terrible tragedy she had incited. Was he still down there? The paper had proclaimed him dead, but was Erik truly gone? Quite the survivor, she didn't doubt for a second that he still lurked beneath the Opera, waiting, dejected, alone... Shaking her head violently, she chided herself and rose to pad into the drawing room, gathering her coat and sliding on her warmest pair of gloves. As she emerged, Raoul gave a small, playful half bow.
"We should be going unless we want to miss Act One. Now, I know you're anxious, but I've got this in case anything actually should go....amiss." Raoul flashed a small silver Derringer into the light, confirming to Christine that she wasn't the only one with doubts. The vicomté escorted his young wife into the waiting carriage, the winter chill traipsing across her cheeks. The driver, bundled against the cold with a heavy scarf swathed across his neck, stood beside his horse in waiting. Christine lifted one gloved hand to grip the rail and hoisted herself in, feeling Raoul follow in one swift motion. Once they were in the carriage, the driver shut the door with one swift slam. Limber as a monkey, he leapt onto the seat and gathered the horse's reins. Clucking, he set the carriage into motion.
Through the cobbled cold of Paris they went, Raoul looking into the night and Christine once more sinking into her dark reverie. Erik could still be there, and he could be angry with her. But what if he had died? That would be a release for him, she felt. But somehow a lingering suspicion tickled her conscience. "Raoul, do you firmly believe Erik dead?"
"Of course, darling. Now, I know you have your flighty fancies, but you must rest assured that he is gone. There can be no further thought for it. Tonight is for Opera, not haunted thoughts." Her husband's remarks seemed to incur that there would be no further discussion, and when Christine bowed her head to resume her train of thought, he gave her cheek a comforting stroke. As they neared the majestic, lighted House, her doubts welled within her, surging to claim a spot at the surface. Anything could happen tonight, anything at all. The dead could rise, she felt. Stepping out of the carriage, she happened to glance at the horse, and her breath stopped in her throat.
"César?" She choked out, recognizing the clean lines of the white stallion. "Is that César?" Whispering, she approached closer, heedless of anything else. The animal let out a glad whinny of recognition, his throaty call familiar in her ears. It couldn't be so. Erik's prize theft, his horse...a carriage beast? Used for taxi? Maybe that meant he really was gone, and they had raided his underground home, taking back his possessions. Or maybe it meant she needed another look at the driver. But she felt her husband's arm encircle her elbow, leading her gently but firmly away, and she watched as the reins tapped lightly against César's back and the horse moved deftly out into the night.
"What's the matter, love?" Raoul asked without a terrible degree of concern as they made their way toward the Opera.
"Oh nothing, I just thought I saw someone I knew..." And in a few steps they had reached the grand entrance to the looming building, the uncertainty rising to a crescendo.
Out in the night, the carriage clopped away through the coldest night in Paris, the hooded driver's cloak flapping in the night breeze.