Soul Consumption
Chapter Two
Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera (unfortunately…). It belongs to Gaston Leroux, and Andrew Lloyd Weber.
Author's Note: Okay, this is purely for trying to minimize confusement. I know I said that I was going to base this off of the original novel, and I still am, as this is a sequel to it (and I therefore need the book ending, der). However, from here on out, you're going to be seeing a lot of stuff that's incorporated in the movie and the musical, as well. I find that both the novel and the musical/movie will serve me well in writing this fic, so it will all be combined. I hope that confusion will be minimized; if you're confused, ask a question and I'll be happy to specify. Enjoy and review!
The past seemed to come in harsh, violent waves as Christine stared up at the extravagant building that had once been her home. Her throat constricted as she let her eyes gaze over every detail of the Opéra Populaire. Spare the work that had been done to make it look even more vivid and exquisite than she remembered, it had not changed. The decorative columns, the terraces, the large windows, the statues that had been carved with so much care… so much that they seemed to come alive. It was all so familiar in it's extravagant glory.
Craning her head back so that all the loose curls fell away from her face, she stared up at the statue of Apollo's Lyre, which had been the scene of her and Raoul's confession of love. The statue of the boyishly handsome Greek God, standing so high above her, seemed to whisper secrets to her, but she realized that it was only the wind.
So many memories, she thought gravely, trying to keep her eyes focused and out of the dream-like world of reminiscence.
"Christine?"
She snapped her head toward the black-haired girl who stood behind him. "What?"
"We can go in, if you'd like…mother is already here, and knows the men who are paying for the reconstruction. She was staying in Paris while I went to visit you, and I sent word to her this morning that we were coming." Meg half-smiled, not particularly liking the glaze that had seemed to come over Christine's eyes.
"Oh… that would be fine," the light-haired brunette said, forcing a smile upon her own lips even as her skin started to crawl with anticipation. Inside the Opera House? After so long? Would the walls whisper unspoken secrets she longed to remember but longed to forget? Christine contented herself with deep breaths as Meg took her hand and led her up the stairs, leading to the large doors of the Populaire.
Inside the Opera House was like a zoo. Men littered the floor, their voices echoing and combining into one loud buzz. Christine looked around, her heart pounding in her chest. Oh, it was the same. The same golden lining, the same painted ceiling. The Grand Staircase loomed in front of her like a giant. How had they fixed it after the damage that had been caused when the chandelier had come crashing down onto guests? There was not a burn mark in sight, not a scratch, not a disfigurement. It was perfect.
"Meg Giry!"
Meg and Christine both turned to see Madame Giry hurrying toward them. She didn't have to fight through the crowds of men that filled the large room; they moved out of her way immediately, as if her presence was one that demanded authority. She was dressed in black, as she always was, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She paused in her quick step, however, when she laid eyes upon Christine. She hadn't seen the girl in two years and was surprised at how much she had grown.
The innocence had faded away from her face, leaving her looking very much like a woman. The dark blue gown, trimmed in glinting silver patterns of roses on the sleeves, neck, and hem, clung to her curves and made her eyes come to life. As the dress fell off of her shoulders, she wore a cape of the same blue that was pinned gracefully over her shoulders with a silver rose clasp. Her thick mane was pulled back with a silver ribbon, leaving several loose curls to frame her pale face, while the rest fell down her back and over her shoulders.
"Christine Daaé… it is a pleasure to see you after such a long time," Madame Giry said with a small nod, continuing toward the two young women.
"It is nice to see you as well, Madame," Christine said, bowing her head as the older woman stopped in front of her. "I hope you are well."
Madame Giry's dark eyes looked Christine over again. "I am, thank you. And so are you, it seems." Her eyes had slid to Christine's left hand, where her engagement ring glittered under the bright lights.
Christine watched as the woman's eyes fell upon her right hand, where the plain, gold band decorated her ring finger. Her eyebrow arched as Christine hurriedly buried her hands under the folds of her cape. When Christine's eyes met the older woman's, she was fighting off a blush under the Madame's hard, dark stare. "I am well, thank you."
"Meg has told me of your engagement, and I congratulate you. I was surprised, though. I thought you and that young Chagny would have married already, as I believe you two were already engaged before you left Paris."
Christine felt her face heat up. "That is true, Raoul and I were engaged when we left Paris. But after all of the events that occurred here, I decided that I wished to postpone the engagement until we were settled."
Madame Giry looked at her with speculation, ignoring Meg's icy stares. "And it took such a long time to do so?"
Christine's eyes were as icy as Meg's glares. Her face, however, continued to turn darker shades of rose. "After the death of the late Comte de Chagny, Raoul and I both had much to do, as well as much on our minds. Neither us of were ready to make such a commitment while so much was weighing on our shoulders. Only recently has the Chagny business stabilized completely, and so Raoul asked me to be his wife."
Madame Giry nodded, taking her eyes away from Christine's. "Again, I congratulate you and the Comte. Now, my dears, I must go and speak to the new manager, Monsieur Delvin. He is a very fine man. Maybe tonight, Christine, you will come to sup with us so that you may meet him? Until then, I must take Meg with me… the Monsieur wishes to speak with her about her upcoming roles."
"May I look around while I wait on her?" Christine asked, turning away from Meg who was staring at her with a hard, speculative look.
"Oh, yes. Of course." Madame Giry's voice held an almost unnoticeable cynical tone, as if she knew something. "But please, do try not to get in the way of the workers. Meg will not take long. Come, child."
Meg glanced at Christine and was about to speak, but her mother pulled her. Again as quickly as she had hurried toward them, she was moving away, parting the sea of men as she did so, with Meg on her heels. Christine watched them go, the ice slowly forming in her stomach as anxiousness filled her.
Christine looked around for a moment, not sure where she wished to venture first. The Entrance Hall, where she was now, was packed with workers who were adding the last touches of paint to the walls and setting up the last of the decorations. She did know, however, that she wanted to get out of that room. Not needing to ask for directions, she picked up her skirts and started to walk down a small hallway that lead into the room she had used as a dedication to her father during her days at the Opera House.
Workers glanced her way, their eyebrows rising. They hadn't a clue who the beautiful woman was, but made no move to stop her or ask her name. They tilted their heads at each other when she disappeared down a small corridor. Apparently the woman knew where she was going. Maybe she was the daughter of the Monsieur who had bought the cursed Opera Populaire. They had heard word of the woman's beauty, and her dancing and singing ability was known throughout France. So, of course, there was no reason to halt the girl's exploration. With shrugs, they went back to their work.
All that lit her way were a few torches, placed far apart from each other. But the lack of sufficient light didn't hinder her. She knew the hall like the back of her hand. However, her eyes still darted back and forth. The walls seemed to whisper to her as she walked down the corridor.
Christine… oh, Christine…
Setting her shoulders straighter as she walked, Christine refused to turn around and go back. She had suffered from more than just whispers, hadn't she? Whispers! There were no such things as ghosts, so that was beyond speculation. But still, the echoing voice that sounded so soft and full of depth sent shivers down her spine.
Christine… no… oh, Christine, no…She was happy when she came to the door of the chapel. Paint that had once colored the door had long vanished in large amounts, leaving spots of brown, scorched wood in view. The door had been burnt, that was obvious. But it seemed as if it had been spared the devastating flame that had devoured much of the rest of the Opera House.
The door barely budged when she attempted to open it. Rust and dull green paint flaked away from the hinges as the young woman pulled. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the handle of the door and leaned back on her heels. However, she only succeeded in bruising her hands. Letting go of the handle, Christine let out a frustrated breathe, flicking the stray curls away from her eyes. The room must have been unused since my days here, she thought grimly.
"I will not give up," she said softly to no one in particular. "Do you hear me? You cannot keep me out. I will open that door, if it is the last thing I do." Tossing her cape away from her shoulders and behind her, she grabbed onto the handle again, both hands curing around the grimy piece of metal. Both engagement rings on either hand dug into the delicate skin of her fingers. Gritting her teeth, Christine ignored the pain and pulled with all of her strength.
She gave a screech as she stumbled backward. The door had pulled free from whatever had sealed it shut, and its sudden, very forceful freedom had caused her to stagger. Tripping over her skirts, she fell onto her back. The coldness of the floor seeped through her clothing immediately, and pain followed up her back. With a groan, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Dirt now decorated her gown, much like the silver designs of thread. Sighing, Christine struggled to stand. Dusting the dirt from the back of her dress, she peered into the darkened room.
The dim light of the hallway didn't serve in sending any light into the room. Christine felt the first waves of doubt sneak into her mind and body. Turning around and picking up her skirts, she walked back down the way she had come. But instead of continuing back out into the Entrance Hall, she paused in front of one of the torches. Reaching up, she grabbed the part of wood that was not covered in flame or held by the iron cradle. She pulled and sighed with relief as she lowered her arms, the torch safely in her grasp. She walked back toward the darkened doorway, not caring that the hem of her dress was attracted dirt from the floor. Extending one arm inside of the room, she peered in once again.
Pain filled her heart. The room had not changed much, spare it was much dirtier than it had been. The large, metal candleholders still sat on top of the shelf that indented the stonewall. The candles, however, were long gone, with only traces of cold wax remaining. Around the bases of the candleholders were dead, dried roses. Her eyebrows drew together, putting creases on her forehead. As Christine stepped into the room, a frown turning the corners of her lips down. A large black blanket had placed over the stain glass window. No wonder the room is so dark, Christine thought. With her free hand, she grabbed an edge of the blanket and pulled the blanket down. It fell to the floor, whispering as it did so.
Oh, Christine…Shivers once again danced up her spine even though light flooded the room. Kicking the blanket into a corner, Christine carefully laid the torch on the edge of the stone shelf so that the end of fire hung off of the side. Its flame touched nothing, so she didn't worry about leaving it there while she looked around.
She let her fingers skim over the cold stone of the walls, her eyes drinking in every detail of the room. It had served as such a haven for her during times of pain and fear and hope. Her father's eyes had always watched over here, and in this room, she felt she was able to talk to him without having to hold anything back.
Fighting back the wave of emotion that threatened to come over her, Christine suddenly stopped. There was a ridge in the wall, making the leveling of the stone uneven. Part of the wall stuck out almost an inch more than the stone before it. Studying the ridge, she felt ice flow through her veins freely. Air came through the crack. Looking up, the crack went to a certain height above her head, and then stopped. Where it stopped, a horizontal crack continued a few feet left.
"A doorway," she laughed, though her voice was strained.
Christine's lips trembled as she let her hands slide over the wall. Her fingertips looked for a trigger that would open the door, as there was no way to pull or push it open. Though she had been able to pull the door to the chapel open, there was no way she could have found enough strength in her small body to push the stone door. However, another alternative illuminated her mind. Raoul had told her of the small, practically unnoticeable buttons that the Persian had found that had allowed them into the Phantom's lair. But suddenly she paused. Did she want to go there? Into that dungeon that held the bones of the man who had taken her soul? That held the bones of the man she had betrayed? Swallowing her doubts, she kept searching the wall.
"Oh, God," she said softly when her fingertips found it. Pushing it in, the door seemed to grumble words as it opened inward. Christine felt her heart start to pound in her chest, causing painful thuds.
Christine… why? Why?She looked into the darkness and could only barely make out a descending staircase, even with the light streaming in through the large window. With her pulse beating rapidly, she hurried and pulled the door to the chapel closed, not wanting any of the men to accidentally stumble upon the secret passage. Grabbing the torch, she cautiously walked back toward the secret door. Carefully, she stepped down the stairs one at a time.
The hairs on the back of her neck started to stand up and goose bumps started crawling up her arms when the walls started to speak her name again. Christine, Christine, they spoke, their voices soft and dark. But something deep in her mind told her that it was not the walls speaking this time. Slowly turning around, the torch held out in front of her, Christine looked up past the stairs she had already descended, her glassy eyes focusing on the doorway. A silhouette blocked out much of the natural light that leaked in through the window. Her mouth was suddenly dry, so her attempt to speak was pointless.
"I told you once in a dream, Christine," the shadow said, its voice deep and pained. "You are not welcome here."
Author's Note: Just wanted to say thank you to all of you guys who have reviewed:
Moonjava, Mireiyu Noir, Alaura Fairfield, Monroe-mary, Sue Raven, ModestySparrow9, lazy.kender19, Black-Caracal, and Morrigan le Fey.
And a veeeery special thanks to Hilary (lazy.kender19), who has helped me a bit, as well as has recommended this fic to others. You guys should go read her story, A White Mask, if you haven't already. Especially if you are a hater of Raoul.
Again, thank you guys much.
