Disclaimer: I /still/ own nothing. Don't try and say I do.
Christine….Christine…
That haunting name that floated through his head. As he sat at the regal but dusty old organ, his fingers seemed to pound on the keys, but he could hear no sound. Only the sound of /her/ voice. Only /her/ name. All else seemed to fade away, leaving the poor creature an empty shell, alone in his darkness.
Christine….Christine…
He couldn't escape her, no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did. But /she/ had escaped him. Running off with that silly little viscomte of hers…at the very thought of him, the great genius sneered angrily. But then the sneer turned to a look of great sadness. A sadness he had kept hidden deep within him for three years, taking his immense rage out only in his music, now. It used to be that he could not control the vehemence surging through his veins. Smashing mirrors, banging down upon the keys of his organ, pounding upon walls and tables, throwing things about….but he had learned to control that, to direct it elsewhere. Music, song, mechanisms, you might say.
Christine….Christine…
His fixation with her was one of mixed emotions. Hatred, for what she had done to him. Scorned him, betrayed him…and yet an intense love, even still. But oh, what he would do if ever he were to see her again….he could not even fathom what he could possibly do. He loved her dearly, and yet he felt he needed to make her pay for what she had done. She had shattered his heart; she had destroyed him and his life. She had led him along and then scorned him, leaving him alone and empty. All for the love of that /child, that /boy/ who she had known when she herself was a child. He claimed to love her, hearing her beautiful voice. The voice that /I/ gave her….the voice that /I/ trained…. Spitefully was this thought. He himself had offered her all he could tender…all that he had to give her….his heart, his soul, his music. The Music of the Night, as he had so lovingly called it.
Christine….Christine…
She had broken his heart and his spirit. No longer could he find inspiration. No longer could he find motivation to play anything, to compose anything. Here in this cavern beneath the Opera Populaire, each day he could hear the workers come to build, to renovate the place. Each day he could hear them leave, and then he was alone again in this dark place. Each day, each and every day…he had lost count of the days that had gone by on which Christine had not returned. Something inside of him had died with the hope that she would return…that she would ever come back to him. And that fact had left him completely devoid of feeling; the flame that had once been his soul had seemed to have gone out. And on this day, it was no different. He was still the ghost, still the same disfigured man, and Christine was still not here with him. He was still here, alone, and nothing could seem to change that.
Until he heard the screeching of a door upon marble.
It was a distant sound from where he was, but he could still hear it. His eyes narrowed; the workers should have all gone home by now/and/ locked the doors. Swiftly, he went to his boat, leaping into it, and began to row towards the staircase leading to the mirror-door. How dare someone invade his solitude! Quickly climbing the stairs, he hardly noticed what he was doing. All he knew was that as he neared the mirror, he could hear footsteps. Someone was in /her/ room. He growled at this; no one should go in there. Not even any of the workers had been in that room.
It wasn't that that room was /sacred/ or any such nonsense…It was just that it was Christine's room. The room in which he had first revealed himself to her, where he had first taken her hand, where he had sung to her that fateful night. It was also the dark room where he had taken out his rage. Chairs had been strewn about, letters as well, papers ripped, things broken…And then he had left it that way, squalid and untidy, to wait out the long years until someone would come find the mess and tidy it up as they would when they got to renovating that part of the theatre.
Nearing the mirror, suddenly he could see a soft light emanating from inside the room. Someone was definitely in there, and he wanted to know right then and there why, and who it was. The workers should have all gone home, the managers, who had stayed on, would not return from England until the renovations were complete, and the front doors should have been locked. That was when he heard singing. Someone was in /her/ room/singing/.
"In sleep he sang to me…."
His heart skipped a beat.
Now he knew who it was….no one else knew that song. She had returned…after those long years of absence, she had returned to him. His eyes narrowed however. /Why/ had she come back/Why/ was she singing /that/ song? The two of them were the only ones who knew it. And yet the singing continued.
"In dreams he came…" But something was wrong with the voice. It was choked somehow. Held back. A single emotion showed through clearly in the words. Sadness.
He paused, listening as the song progressed. The voice got softer and softer, heavy with what sounded like tears. But it never finished the verse.
And that was when he did something he had not done in three years…since the day she had left him. He began to sing.
"Sing once again with me…
Our strange duet…" He began. He heard silence in return. Standing back from the mirror, he could see his vision of loveliness standing there in the room, a lantern in her hand. She was trembling, frozen and wide eyed. He continued.
"My power over you,
grows stronger yet…" She looked about, and then to the mirror. She was staring straight at him, eyes as big as saucers, looking rather awe-struck.
"And though you turn from me…
To glance behind…." The young woman was completely still, watching the mirror. It had been cracked, but no shards of glass had fallen from it. That was when he chose to show himself. Moving up to the mirror, he slipped through the door to stand before her.
"The Phantom of the opera is there
Inside your mind."
The Phantom of the Opera had returned.
Author's Note: to anyone reading this, I should have stated in the previous chapter. This fic is more based on the musical/film production. So...just to let you know, there /will/ be more singing...
