A/N: Well, here's another chapter. I know, it took me a while, but at least I got it up. I'm hoping to be updating a lot quicker through the summer, now that school's ended. The poem used in this was written by me, though I think it was actually pieces of other poems put together. I can't really remember. Well, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and please review!
15
The Journal
The Opera Ghost stepped through a passageway, leaving the little ballerina alone to her thoughts. Hissing and crackling, the fire cast eerie shadows on the stone walls, monstrous figures dancing a wild, untamed dance. Mesmerized by their movements, Celine stared at the orange and red flames, contemplating her situation.
She was the Phantom of the Opera's prisoner.
A piece of wood split under the weight of the fire, intense heat mercilessly burning it's dry skin.
He was a madman.
Glowing embers seemed to stare at her through the dust and ash, their eyes a silent mockery to her situation.
He was both gentle and cruel in turns.
A sigh escaped her lips as the little ballerina turned from the fireplace and shifted to face the bookshelves. Tilting her head upwards, she began to count the number of books her captor had. By the time she reached one hundred, her eyes burned from the effort and she gave up her pointless task. Striding towards the closest shelf, Celine picked up a random book and set herself down on one of the chairs.
The cover was worn leather, a strip of frayed rope used to tie the book closed. It smelled of candles and exotic spices, with the faint scent of sweat and dirt hiding just under the overlapping stench. The pages were yellowed and crinkled, jutting out from the book at odd angles, and it was bound quite crudely with thick string. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was a journal.
Glancing from side to side to make sure the Phantom wasn't watching, Celine undid the rope clasp and carefully opened the book. She nearly gasped in surprise at what she found inside.
The first page was an exquisite drawing of one of the most beautiful houses she had ever seen. It was actually less of a house and more of a castle. It was a frontal view, done in pen and watercolor, and the details were breathtaking. The house itself was made of stone, a brick driveway circling around the front. A marble statue of a man and a woman in a loving embrace, water shooting out of their clasped hands which raised high above them, stood in the center of it. At least a hundred windows - each with a different design or picture stained on the glass - faced the front yard alone. Grimacing gargoyles stood on pillars placed at intervals in front of the building, and angels stood on the roof, reaching towards the heavens.
Celine turned the page.
It was the same building, only this view focused mainly on the roof. The angels from before were still visible, only this time you could see that each one was different. Some had wings spread out, as if ready to take flight, others kneeled in reverence. Two angels seemed to be in the middle of a duel, their fiery swords inches from clashing together in a furious blow. And each one of them had a different face, a different expression. One showed sorrow, stone tears falling down his face. Another, peace; it's eyes holding complete serenity in their gaze.
Touching the picture lightly, the little ballerina could barely believe something so magnificent could even be drawn. The next page, however, had even more wonders to behold.
The back of the house could be seen in the distance, a blot of gray as out of place in the depicted sunrise as a hungry wolf with a flock of sheep. Though, in this particular picture, the building wasn't the center of focus. Stretched before the viewer's eye was a magnificent, flowering garden. Lilies floated lazily in scattered ponds, marigolds blossomed like wildfire. Tulips, and lilacs, and baby's breath, and hundred of other flowers Celine had never seen before filled up the entire page. The miraculous thing: They were all held within a winding green maze. At the center of the maze, the garden's pride and joy, this picture's crowning glory, was the rose garden. A wooden bench sat under the shade of a willow tree in the clearing, a fountain of crystal clear water gurgled and bubbled a few feet away. Surrounding the small space was an array of every color rose imaginable. From red, to yellow, to white, to pink, and even black, luscious, full roses blossomed in every direction. The fountain reflected each color where all the different shades of rose petals had fallen into the water through the guidance of the wind.
It was beautiful. Utterly beautiful.
The little ballerina gazed at the picture in awe and longing, a small sigh escaping her lips as she turned the page.
There, she found an assortment of different writings scribbled in a messy print. From dimensions to poetry, mathematical equations to fiction, scientific reasoning to philosophical ranting, every page was filled with something different.
And, in a moment of utter shock and fear, Celine realized she had stumbled upon the Opera Ghost's journal.
Glancing from side to side, the girl checked for any signs of the ghost.
He wasn't there, and temptation was too strong. Burying herself in the book, the ballerina was determined to come out of this investigation a little more knowledgeable about the Opera Populaire's resident ghost.
Deeper Meaning
The sun is bright when the first bud opes;
When the wind stirs soft and the river flows
Like a stream of glass, and a private breeze
Swirls around the warm summer days;
What the caged bird feels and the caged bird sings,
Is infused with the shades of deeper meaning.
When he beats his wing, warned that he hadn't tried,
And his blood is red on the cruel, leering bars;
When his voice slides in, curving through and over his words,
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
For what the caged bird feels and the caged bird sings,
Is infused with the shades of deeper meaning.
Were there notes, music, lined on the bars?
For his sounds cascaded gently!
I hadn't really heard, heard to understand, a single word-
The essence escaped but its aura remained;
What the caged bird feels and the caged bird sings,
Is infused with the shades of deeper meaning.
"It was the worst of times," his voice sang;
"It was the best of times," I heard.
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-
For what the caged bird feels and the caged bird sings,
Is infused with the shades of deeper meaning.
The first thing she read was a poem. It confused her, seemed to hold double meanings, but it fit the masked man somehow. The next page held an actual journal entry, and Celine held her breath in anticipation.
April 6, 1870
Fear. Why can it be so weakening and yet so empowering? I don't understand this life. I don't understand this pain. This hatred. This face -
"What," The Phantom said with venom, his form towering over Celine darkly. "Do you think you're doing." The tray in his hand dropped with a harsh clatter on the small table beside the girl. Gasping in surprise, the ballerina snapped the book shut and twisted around to see her captor directly behind her, a fiery fury burning in his eyes. His fists were clenched, and she could easily tell it took great effort for him not to strike her then and there.
"I trusted you," he whispered calmly, advancing on the girl. Celine, in turn, stepped backwards, stumbling as she went. Her brown doe eyes were wide and pleading, the words of her regret at the tip of her tongue, though she was too afraid to utter a sound.
"For ten minutes I trusted you." The Phantom took another step, his voice rising and the deadly look in his eyes making her very soul wither like a dying flower.
"And where has trust landed me?" He stopped then, inches from Celine's face. She hadn't even realized she had closed her eyes, though when she felt the solid wall behind her and heard his angry words before her, it must have been natural to do so. His breathing was ragged, like he had been running for a long time, though she knew he hadn't.
He left the question unanswered as he backed off the girl, retreating to the other side of the room.
"Eat," the ghost growled angrily, gesturing roughly towards the tray on the table, laden with exotic foods the ballerina had never before seen in her life.
But her stomach was flipping in fear, twisting in anxiety. It felt like a lump had lodged itself in her throat, and somehow she realized it was the sobs she had held back from moments before. Not sobs of fear for her own safety. Sobs for the words he spoke. She had betrayed him, and, even though he was a murderous kidnapper, it seemed like something utterly, completely wrong. She had committed one of the most vile, heinous acts she could ever commit. Destroying the trust of a man who needed it so much.
"I-I'm not r-really h-hunr -"
"EAT!" he interrupted with blind fury.
She gulped, and walked timidly over towards the table. Picking up a vegetable-looking item (though she couldn't really be sure), Celine sniffed it, then put it to her lips, taking the tiniest of bites. She chewed too much, and swallowed it down with the look of a man who had just been asked to eat his own toe.
She couldn't do this. With her conscious shouting at her for what she had done, the little ballerina just couldn't stand to eat anything at the moment. The girl sighed loudly, and sat back down on the chair. Her hands rested gently in her lap, and her head stared down at her feet.
"I was scared, too," she whispered, though it was just loud enough for the Phantom to hear. Celine glanced at him, but his back was turned to her, and she couldn't tell his reaction.
"I still am. It's...it's frightening, to find out you're all alone in this world. I...I lost my father a few years ago. I came here, to the Opera, as an orphan." When she looked up this time, she saw him shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably, but continued on.
"The other girls...they just didn't understand. I was scared...they thought I was shy, or that I had always been this way. My father...I loved him, and when he was gone, I felt like I had no one left to protect me from the harsh realities of this world. In truth, I didn't. It was either this, or the brothels. I was only sixteen.
"And it is a scary thought. Realizing you have no one to hold you...when you want to cry. That life's tough, and you just have to get over it, but...but there's this emptiness inside...this longing..." By now tears had begun to stain her cheeks. They fell in steady streams, leaving light red trails in their wake.
The Opera Ghost turned towards the girl, looking at her curiously, watching as she wiped at her salty tears with a sort of pitiful fury.
"...And you just can't seem to get rid of it. The fear, that is." Celine looked up, and saw his amber eyes burning into her. But for once they didn't sting like a fire. For once, they were kind, and caring, and...warm.
She continued, her eyes looking into his, her heart pouring out to him, begging forgiveness for the stupid mistake she had made earlier.
"The fear that you can never be what you once were. And it's not even that your afraid of change. You're afraid of being afraid. Scared of the possibility of fear seizing you and ending your life, though somehow you knew it had ended already."
Her words started to come out in sobs now, and she seemed to be choking on her owns tears. The Phantom moved closer towards the girl and leaned down, embracing her and giving her as much comfort as he could possibly muster.
"...and...and..."
"Shh..." he whispered in her ear, stroking her hair and rocking her gently. "Don't speak. It's alright."
After a few moments of this, she pulled back from him slightly to look him in the eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered, gazing at him intently. A few stray tears still escaped.
"You're forgiven, Celine. Now eat." His voice was gentle, soothing, and as smooth as a song.
She nodded her head numbly and nibbled on the array of food on the platter, not really paying any attention to what she ate.
The Phantom watched her the whole time, silent and unmoving, kneeling in front of her like some black-clad guardian.
And, in some odd way, Celine viewed him as such.