Lachesis' Weavings
by AngelCeleste85
Disclaimer: I do not own "PTO." I never have, and never will, own Erik, Raoul, Christine, or any of the other characters that appear in other authors' versions of the story of the Phantom of the Opera (no matter how much I wish I did). The only things I can make any claim to are the workings of my own imagination with the material that other artists have given to me in their music and their stories, and the occasional incidental characters that truly *are* mine. Therefore I am not making any money off of this in any way, shape or form!
Blame: I think this one goes entirely on my shoulders. ;-)
Setting: Right after ALW version.
Other notes: This might become multiple chapters. I think it'll be E/C, but I don't know yet. I suspect it *will* become an E/M real soon. I do know precisely where I intend for this to go, but one of my muses might have another idea entirely. If you're not sure who M is, read on.
{{ denotes Meg's thoughts }}
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Lachesis' Weavings
by AngelCeleste85
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ch. 2: Into the Broken Looking-Glass
It wasn't easy to put one over on old Madame Giry, but as she slipped away from the end of the rehearsal Meg felt pretty sure she'd managed it. Behind her, her mother's voice barked orders at the girls who had not rehearsed their moves well enough to suit her as the remainder of the corps sighed in relief. Madame Giry had a formidable temper, there was no getting around it, and there was not a girl or boy among the petite rats but breathed a sigh of relief that the ballet teacher's temper was not coming down on their heads. All of them had been victims of her sharp tongue and, though rare and it took a great deal to bring it into use, her cane as well.
Meg pulled her dark gray shawl, threadbare but serviceable, tighter around her head to hide her golden hair and around her shoulders to try to ward off some of the chill. The fact that she hadn't changed out of her practice tutu wasn't helping at all, the flesh-colored tights were not intended to keep her warm. Though the furnaces in the Opera House were powerful, they hadn't run in weeks and most of their heat was piped up to the auditorium when they had been. Of course, that was from fear of the Phantom of the Opera as well.
But nothing had been heard or found of him for two weeks!
Like it or not, life as usual continued at the Opera House though the mob that had gone to hunt for the Phantom of the Opera had wound up looting anything of value that wasn't nailed down instead and much of the fine art was badly damaged. Yet rehearsals continued, though repairs were slow in starting. Carlotta had resumed her old place as the company's prima donna and anyone she even suspected of remembering her utter humiliation at the hands of the Phantom those months ago bore the brunt of the tyrannical diva's wrath.
She slipped down the long hallway to Christine's old dressing room - the door had been inexpertly nailed shut for two weeks since the mob had come back empty-handed. Meg herself had been there in the Phantom's own home with them, though not willingly, she had feared that harm might come to Christine. But they had found no trace of either Christine or the Phantom. Nor had the Vicomte de Chagny been found, either.
No, not quite true. The mob hadn't found anything of any of the three missing persons, that was true. But Meg personally treasured the silver- white porcelain half-mask she had found and kept secret.
The light from the connecting corridor barely penetrated this far. For a moment she stopped and bent down low to a place where a large, deep hole had been gouged in the wall. No ornate wooden paneling with marble floors and ceiling molding here: only thin plank walls covered with a bit of paint over the plaster. Behind the walls were layers of insulation, but it was cold enough down here to make Meg suspect that the four-legged rats had managed to eat most of that. She could hear them skittering away from her hand and shuddered when he hand brushed something that squeaked and vanished. Quickly she found the iron lantern she had left behind on her arrival here this morning, and the matches. A stink of sulphur accompanied the quick flare and only a moment sufficed to touch the flame to the fresh, kerosene-soaked wick.
It had been the old stagehand Buquet who had told her that nothing kept one's night vision in the dark like a lamp that was covered so that it only shone red light. He had said, when she asked why he was carrying a lamp like that among the scenes below, that white light was the worst thing a body could do to their sight when they needed to be in the dark and able to see without being seen. He hadn't seemed aware of the pun, though.
The quick patter of the dancer's little feet echoed in a muffled way down the hall.
Christine had admitted to her, in a tear-filled moment in secret that her "Angel of Music" was only a man. It hadn't been difficult to connect the dots: this mysterious man with the voice of an angel and the face of a demon could be none other than the Opera Ghost: surely two men could not have escaped notice for so long down there!
Two weeks and nothing had been so much as smelled of the Phantom of the Opera, not even by the gendarmes who, until this morning, had watched constantly over the cavern they knew had to house the Phantom somewhere. The commissioner had only ended his inquest that morning and pulled the police off of their unceasing watch only then, much to the dismay of Firmin and Andre. For fourteen days the place had been as silent as a mausoleum and, to Meg, it felt as desolate.
Little Meg prayed under her breath, as she bent back the nails holding the door shut, that it wasn't indeed his tomb she was going to.
"Strange," the dancer murmured to herself as she hurried down the corridor, the low glare of the red lamp casting eerie, bloody-looking shadows on the walls and doors she passed. "This place feels more haunted now than when we had an Opera Ghost around." It was entirely possible, she knew, that the reason for that was because the so-called "ghost" was a real one now. She had spoken only to break the heavy, oppressive silence, but it seemed that her words were flung back at her as if by a soundproof wall, as if her words were even more intrusive and un-natural to this once-busy corridor than this lurking silence.
She had figured out how to jury-rig an entrance into Christine's room that didn't give away the fact that it had been re-opened too obviously, under her breath she thanked and blessed the old stagehand Joseph Buquet for his lessons to her in stagecraft. All it really needed was a few nails bent just a little bit and for that she carried a small hammer concealed in her cloak pocket. Christine had long ago given her a spare key, saying that if she needed to stay the night in her room she was more than welcome to. Now she slipped the key into the door, opened it and stepped in.
The room was even colder than the hallway had been and she pulled her cloak still tighter. Not that it did much good. The eerie, flickering shadows reflected off the vanity mirror, and off of the fragments of the mirrored doorway. Meg could remember when she had never suspected how Christine vanished with her "Angel," she hadn't believed it until Carlotta had smashed the mirror with a chair. The shock of the pitch-dark passage behind the mirror had lasted only long enough for a few rifle butts to break open a jagged hole large enough for them to pass two abreast, as wide as the secret passage would accommodate.
The ghosts of the past did seem to haunt this room and Meg shivered, pulling herself back to the present. Shoes were her first concern, the ballet slippers she carried, tied to a little loop on her skirt, would not be any protection at all from the glass shards that glinted in the red light like they already tasted her blood. Christine had worn about the same size shoes as Meg did and Meg had come down here counting on finding an old pair that Christine hadn't forgotten. She knew for a fact that the room hadn't been touched beyond the mirror: everyone was still walking too gingerly for fear that the Opera Ghost was still around, though it seemed he was no longer.
"After all," the Commissioner had said, "he's only human. He's got to eat sometime, and drink. None of my men has ever seen or heard him come out for water, and nobody's smelled or heard him eating. I tell you, messieurs, he died weeks ago."
Of course, nobody had wanted to go in and find out where the body was, even to give it a decent burial.
{{ Standing here isn't going to get you in there, Megan Giry, }} she scolded herself and rummaged through the closet quickly. There was one of Christine's dresses: surely the Vicomte would buy her new ones so she wouldn't have to worry about wearing her faded cotton gowns, years out of style, anymore. She stripped quickly, shivering anew at the thought that maybe *he* was there, watching her through the shattered remains of the mirror... {{ It's your imagination, Giry. }} She still changed into Christine's dress, a light, dingy gray that might have been sky-blue once. It was a trifle too snug across the hips and the bodice was a little too loose, but it was a deal warmer than her skimpy ballerina's costume.
{{ Besides, he's a grown man, and I can't very well show up on his doorstep alone and dressed like that, God only knows what he'd do! }}
But Meg didn't believe it. Everything Christine had told her about him made her feel that he was a perfect gentleman. "I feel his presence when I'm in my dressing-room, Meg," she'd said, her cheeks stained with pink, " but if I so much as twist my arm behind my back to get the buttons he vanishes."
With difficulty Meg fastened up the last button and pulled on a pair of Christine's stouter shoes. Checking the lamp - it would not do to let that go out, down there in the lightless labyrinth of the Opera House cellars! - she took a deep breath, made the sign of the cross, squared her shoulders, and walked through the broken looking-glass.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Please let me know how you're enjoying this so far!
AngelCeleste85
Disclaimer: I do not own "PTO." I never have, and never will, own Erik, Raoul, Christine, or any of the other characters that appear in other authors' versions of the story of the Phantom of the Opera (no matter how much I wish I did). The only things I can make any claim to are the workings of my own imagination with the material that other artists have given to me in their music and their stories, and the occasional incidental characters that truly *are* mine. Therefore I am not making any money off of this in any way, shape or form!
Blame: I think this one goes entirely on my shoulders. ;-)
Setting: Right after ALW version.
Other notes: This might become multiple chapters. I think it'll be E/C, but I don't know yet. I suspect it *will* become an E/M real soon. I do know precisely where I intend for this to go, but one of my muses might have another idea entirely. If you're not sure who M is, read on.
{{ denotes Meg's thoughts }}
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lachesis' Weavings
by AngelCeleste85
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ch. 2: Into the Broken Looking-Glass
It wasn't easy to put one over on old Madame Giry, but as she slipped away from the end of the rehearsal Meg felt pretty sure she'd managed it. Behind her, her mother's voice barked orders at the girls who had not rehearsed their moves well enough to suit her as the remainder of the corps sighed in relief. Madame Giry had a formidable temper, there was no getting around it, and there was not a girl or boy among the petite rats but breathed a sigh of relief that the ballet teacher's temper was not coming down on their heads. All of them had been victims of her sharp tongue and, though rare and it took a great deal to bring it into use, her cane as well.
Meg pulled her dark gray shawl, threadbare but serviceable, tighter around her head to hide her golden hair and around her shoulders to try to ward off some of the chill. The fact that she hadn't changed out of her practice tutu wasn't helping at all, the flesh-colored tights were not intended to keep her warm. Though the furnaces in the Opera House were powerful, they hadn't run in weeks and most of their heat was piped up to the auditorium when they had been. Of course, that was from fear of the Phantom of the Opera as well.
But nothing had been heard or found of him for two weeks!
Like it or not, life as usual continued at the Opera House though the mob that had gone to hunt for the Phantom of the Opera had wound up looting anything of value that wasn't nailed down instead and much of the fine art was badly damaged. Yet rehearsals continued, though repairs were slow in starting. Carlotta had resumed her old place as the company's prima donna and anyone she even suspected of remembering her utter humiliation at the hands of the Phantom those months ago bore the brunt of the tyrannical diva's wrath.
She slipped down the long hallway to Christine's old dressing room - the door had been inexpertly nailed shut for two weeks since the mob had come back empty-handed. Meg herself had been there in the Phantom's own home with them, though not willingly, she had feared that harm might come to Christine. But they had found no trace of either Christine or the Phantom. Nor had the Vicomte de Chagny been found, either.
No, not quite true. The mob hadn't found anything of any of the three missing persons, that was true. But Meg personally treasured the silver- white porcelain half-mask she had found and kept secret.
The light from the connecting corridor barely penetrated this far. For a moment she stopped and bent down low to a place where a large, deep hole had been gouged in the wall. No ornate wooden paneling with marble floors and ceiling molding here: only thin plank walls covered with a bit of paint over the plaster. Behind the walls were layers of insulation, but it was cold enough down here to make Meg suspect that the four-legged rats had managed to eat most of that. She could hear them skittering away from her hand and shuddered when he hand brushed something that squeaked and vanished. Quickly she found the iron lantern she had left behind on her arrival here this morning, and the matches. A stink of sulphur accompanied the quick flare and only a moment sufficed to touch the flame to the fresh, kerosene-soaked wick.
It had been the old stagehand Buquet who had told her that nothing kept one's night vision in the dark like a lamp that was covered so that it only shone red light. He had said, when she asked why he was carrying a lamp like that among the scenes below, that white light was the worst thing a body could do to their sight when they needed to be in the dark and able to see without being seen. He hadn't seemed aware of the pun, though.
The quick patter of the dancer's little feet echoed in a muffled way down the hall.
Christine had admitted to her, in a tear-filled moment in secret that her "Angel of Music" was only a man. It hadn't been difficult to connect the dots: this mysterious man with the voice of an angel and the face of a demon could be none other than the Opera Ghost: surely two men could not have escaped notice for so long down there!
Two weeks and nothing had been so much as smelled of the Phantom of the Opera, not even by the gendarmes who, until this morning, had watched constantly over the cavern they knew had to house the Phantom somewhere. The commissioner had only ended his inquest that morning and pulled the police off of their unceasing watch only then, much to the dismay of Firmin and Andre. For fourteen days the place had been as silent as a mausoleum and, to Meg, it felt as desolate.
Little Meg prayed under her breath, as she bent back the nails holding the door shut, that it wasn't indeed his tomb she was going to.
"Strange," the dancer murmured to herself as she hurried down the corridor, the low glare of the red lamp casting eerie, bloody-looking shadows on the walls and doors she passed. "This place feels more haunted now than when we had an Opera Ghost around." It was entirely possible, she knew, that the reason for that was because the so-called "ghost" was a real one now. She had spoken only to break the heavy, oppressive silence, but it seemed that her words were flung back at her as if by a soundproof wall, as if her words were even more intrusive and un-natural to this once-busy corridor than this lurking silence.
She had figured out how to jury-rig an entrance into Christine's room that didn't give away the fact that it had been re-opened too obviously, under her breath she thanked and blessed the old stagehand Joseph Buquet for his lessons to her in stagecraft. All it really needed was a few nails bent just a little bit and for that she carried a small hammer concealed in her cloak pocket. Christine had long ago given her a spare key, saying that if she needed to stay the night in her room she was more than welcome to. Now she slipped the key into the door, opened it and stepped in.
The room was even colder than the hallway had been and she pulled her cloak still tighter. Not that it did much good. The eerie, flickering shadows reflected off the vanity mirror, and off of the fragments of the mirrored doorway. Meg could remember when she had never suspected how Christine vanished with her "Angel," she hadn't believed it until Carlotta had smashed the mirror with a chair. The shock of the pitch-dark passage behind the mirror had lasted only long enough for a few rifle butts to break open a jagged hole large enough for them to pass two abreast, as wide as the secret passage would accommodate.
The ghosts of the past did seem to haunt this room and Meg shivered, pulling herself back to the present. Shoes were her first concern, the ballet slippers she carried, tied to a little loop on her skirt, would not be any protection at all from the glass shards that glinted in the red light like they already tasted her blood. Christine had worn about the same size shoes as Meg did and Meg had come down here counting on finding an old pair that Christine hadn't forgotten. She knew for a fact that the room hadn't been touched beyond the mirror: everyone was still walking too gingerly for fear that the Opera Ghost was still around, though it seemed he was no longer.
"After all," the Commissioner had said, "he's only human. He's got to eat sometime, and drink. None of my men has ever seen or heard him come out for water, and nobody's smelled or heard him eating. I tell you, messieurs, he died weeks ago."
Of course, nobody had wanted to go in and find out where the body was, even to give it a decent burial.
{{ Standing here isn't going to get you in there, Megan Giry, }} she scolded herself and rummaged through the closet quickly. There was one of Christine's dresses: surely the Vicomte would buy her new ones so she wouldn't have to worry about wearing her faded cotton gowns, years out of style, anymore. She stripped quickly, shivering anew at the thought that maybe *he* was there, watching her through the shattered remains of the mirror... {{ It's your imagination, Giry. }} She still changed into Christine's dress, a light, dingy gray that might have been sky-blue once. It was a trifle too snug across the hips and the bodice was a little too loose, but it was a deal warmer than her skimpy ballerina's costume.
{{ Besides, he's a grown man, and I can't very well show up on his doorstep alone and dressed like that, God only knows what he'd do! }}
But Meg didn't believe it. Everything Christine had told her about him made her feel that he was a perfect gentleman. "I feel his presence when I'm in my dressing-room, Meg," she'd said, her cheeks stained with pink, " but if I so much as twist my arm behind my back to get the buttons he vanishes."
With difficulty Meg fastened up the last button and pulled on a pair of Christine's stouter shoes. Checking the lamp - it would not do to let that go out, down there in the lightless labyrinth of the Opera House cellars! - she took a deep breath, made the sign of the cross, squared her shoulders, and walked through the broken looking-glass.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Please let me know how you're enjoying this so far!
AngelCeleste85