Daniella
This is a story me and my friend Daniella are writing together. this is the first chapter, hope you like!
The Return of the Phantom
A Phantom of the Opera Fanfic
Night enveloped the Opera House and the last of the most dedicated patrons began to filter out onto the Parisian streets. Most were praising La Carlotta's latest performance, but some, generally those with a fondness for wine and none too much caution, spoke with hushed regret for the long vanished Christine Daiei, Not known to have taken the stage since the fateful night of the first performance of Don Juan. This minority believed their conversation private, but in Paris, as all eventually learn, someone is always listening. This particular someone had grown accustomed to remaining both unseen and heard, dissolving into the darkness as though he himself was formed of shadow. A ghost, visible only by the fire in his eyes.
Becoming bored with the idle chatter of the musically ignorant the dark figure withdrew from the crowd and fled phantom-wise into the Opera house that was a home to him. By ways that only he could know, the opera ghost swept unknown through the silent passageways before finally drawing to a halt before a room that had once housed one of the most renowned sopranos in Paris. It had fallen to disuse many years ago. None would tolerate being housed there. The superstitious believed it haunted by phantoms of long ago, and the not so superstitious' pride would not allow them to be allocated a room so often spurned by all others. The opera ghost however, had no intention of staying here. He wrenched open the door and strode through the abandoned room with purpose.
Dustsheets covered most of the furniture and everything else was simply dust-covered. Withered flowers in vases remained from the days of the original occupant, books of famous composers and musicians littered the floor and writing materials lay scattered among orchestral scores and sheet music. The ghost passed by all of this without so much as a second glance, for any one of these items would have summoned dark and painful memories. None of which he had any desire to relive. Instead he made directly for the great mirror that rested upon the far wall. With elegant, gloved hands he reached for a hidden switch beneath a loose brick in the fireplace and the mirror swung open without so much as a groan or squeal of mechanism. It revealed a staircase, spiralling downwards and lit by flickering torches. The ghost took one of these torches from its bracket on the wall and began his descent into the shadows.
In the room that the ghost was proceeding towards, there waited another presence. A young woman sat before the organ. Un-played compositions, pens, virgin staves and half written scores lay strewn upon the keys. Her head was bowed; blue-black hair falling upon the already littered organ keys, brows creased in frustration and one hand was dancing expertly through an un-finished melody. Mid-bar she stopped. "No." she sighed huffily, "Its wrong, all wrong." She flung down her latest attempt at the accompaniment to the aria in the third act of her opera. "It ought to be 'Passion and Grief' not 'Passionate Grief'!" Taking deep and calming breaths she prepared to resume her never-ending battle against her own need for perfection.
A swirl of black and velvet announced the arrival of her master. "You should learn to compose more quietly Imogen, Half the city can hear you when you are vexed with your music. We have lived in secret too long to be discovered now." She did not reply but remained in unresisting and obedient silence while the master seated himself beside her on the piano stool. Her heart beat a little faster as his hand rested on her waist and the other played lightly upon the keys. She was mesmerised by the elegant movements and the Phantoms' face, lost in concentration. Without thinking she reached out to touch him, her fingertips just brushing against the white half-mask. Realising what she had just done, she recoiled, fearing his anger. Instead he grasped her hand, touched it again against the mask, trailing her fingers over the smooth, white surface to rest finally against the flesh of his cheek. "We must be patient" he said gently, "You need to finish you opera, and Eleanore must complete her vocal training. Only then will we be ready for the stage. The world will fall at our feet, your name will grace the lips of every patron of the arts in Paris and The Phantom of the Opera will once again be known," at this he sighed and said in a softer voice that Imogen was not supposed to hear, "Even if only spoken of with fear and revulsion."
An exquisite soprano, raised in song proclaimed the presence of the phantoms' other protégé. Eleanore, believing herself to be completely alone, sang her soul to the nights' echoes, her life and love filling the sweet melodies as she paced the dark corridors of the phantoms' lair. She carried a taper in hand; whose warm and feeble light illuminated her marble features as she flitted among the Phantoms' many candles. She lit each of them as she moved along and soon they filled the great hall with a tremulous light. It reflected in her eyes, midnight blue and shadowed by long dark lashes, and glanced off her hair, glossy curls of mahogany bound back into a loose braid.
As she neared the Organ room another voice joined her own in harmony. It was deeper than her own, male and sung not of hopes and dreams but of sorrow and regret. It was a voice she knew well and cherished the presence of. Strangely the dark feel of the new voice did not twist or pervert her song but strengthened it with layer upon layer of emotion and raw humanity. Eleanore was drawn irresistibly towards the source of the Phantoms song. She lifted her skirts above her knees and prepared to wade the misted lake towards the Organ room. Before she could, Imogen came to greet her and the two embraced like sisters. Imogen was dressed simply in a loose white shirt and skinny breeches teamed with soft leather boots and a silk-lined cloak. Her hair spilled unbound to her waist, gleaming with unearthly sheen while her eyes, dark shards of sea green, were filled with candlelight. "Where have you been?" she asked in exasperation, "He is here, and he has been waiting." With that she turned and began to fade into the mist.
Eleanore followed eagerly, her dress, white layered over black, delicately adorned with lace and ribbon, trailed unheeded through the water along with her cloak; a soft fall of waterlogged velvet. The taper she released in her struggle against the drag of her gown. The light was extinguished and the shell of that which had once been fuel for the light sank beneath the mists.
The two young women entered the Organ room together and the Phantom laid waiting for them. "Brava's! Virtuosi! Maestri's! My Angels of Music!" he stood to meet them. "The time draws near when you will be ready for the stage and an audience, everything must be perfect." With that he came and took Eleanore's hand in his own, pulling her from the water. "You must sing for me, my Angel. And you," he turned to Imogen, "you are so close to completing your opera. What stops you?"
"Well-"
"The answer is nothing. I believe in you, sweet Angel. To work. We must all prepare." Eleanore followed the Phantom meekly for her singing lesson and Imogen took her papers and once again set to work on the organ.
The songs the Phantom had for her this time were all unknown to her, an opera she had never heard. "These are Imogen's aren't they?" the Phantom did not reply but nodded in agreement. They were beautiful, truly, she had had no idea that Imogen could make feeling into such poetry and express herself so. In The Lovers' duet especially, the music possessed her and she felt herself becoming the character, her voice swelled, the notes clear and pure. The Phantoms' voice joined her own, the two entwined and inseparable into a sum that was far greater than either of the parts. Lost in rapture Eleanore reached out, her arms curling around the Phantoms' neck, pressing herself into the soft black velvet, light-headed with song and the scent of rose petals. After the briefest of hesitations the Phantom responded, he turned her until her back was pressed against his chest, holding her close in his arms. Eleanore closed her eyes shuddering with contentment. She reached back with one delicate hand, tightly twining her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. Gentle hands caressed her neck and lips touched against her cheekbone, soft as breath.
He pulled away so suddenly that she gasped, wondering what she had done wrong. She would have asked him but true to his name the Phantom had vanished. With a little sigh of regret she sunk to the floor her back against the wall - so much harsher than black velvet. She flushed a soft pink shade of embarrassment at her actions. Did this mean that he did not love her? "It was my own stupid fault and I should have known better." She spoke out loud. Somehow it didn't seem to help.