Both Phantom and King, he rules the opera in a web of lies and tyranny.

Only one timid chorus girl can tear through his silken threads of mirage and destruction,

But the toll on her heart is vast to free his trapped soul...

x

A/N: This has been a long time in coming – and I know anticipated by a few. Now that I'm reposting the scene summaries of the Hidden Plot in a group I started on Facebook this year (since the forum they were on disbanded), I felt this a good time to begin posting this story. Also, since we all know how the movie ends – (and for those who read The Quest, you know what happens from that), I felt this was a good one to post on my birthday (per tradition) since I have so many other E/C stories in progress right now. At least with lapses between chapters of this one, you still pretty much know what happens and what the ending will be. :) So any wait won't be as hard (as with the others)...

First, I want to make clear, this is my interpretation of the symbolism they chose to use, for what I call the Hidden Plot. (Some may agree with me; others may have a different idea. It's all cool. ;-)) The symbolism found in movie (props used, description of settings, clothing, events as they happen, etc) will be shown in the crux of the narrative I write - and I will include as much of it as I can, though sadly it is impossible to show all of it. Also, the dialogue from scenes shown in movie are often taken word for word - since sometimes the dialogue itself was a clue. But I chose not to use all of it, only bits and pieces here and there. When getting into their thoughts/motives/additional dialogue – along with any extra scenes (not shown in movie)- that is my interpretation of the symbolism only, and also crafted to go along with my finished stories of this series: The Quest, The Treasure, and The Claim (in progress). Whether any of the following was the intention of the creators or not will likely never be known. If nothing else, just think of this as a prequel story to my other stories in this series - a supernatural romance drama - with visuals seen and found in movie interwoven into the setting, sometimes along with their meaning. If this isn't all clear, you'll understand as you read on. :)

This is my original story (which belongs to me) with the characters and symbolism borrowed from ALW (which belongs to them). ;-) Also, I see no reason not to keep this T-rated, since I'm following the PG13 movie, but there is a slim chance that could change. (Forewarned is forearmed).

And so, I take you a little deeper into the tale we all love, to give you…

The Prelude

XXxXX

I

Above high walls of white stone that had been cast in a shimmering rose hue, courtesy of the rising sun, twin statues of elegant gold stood on the topmost dome of the grand Opera House. One, the statue of a slender woman, stood beside a tall man, his arm uplifted, as if beckoning the masses to enter the wide doors and partake of all the musical pleasures found within…

Inside, a mystery lay veiled within the gloomy shadows of every rafter and beam of the gigantic theatre, where no light dared to filter through... silent whispers that intrigued the curious as much as they caused the unwary to fear...

For the past three days, the constant prickling of unrest mingled with a strange expectation, so thick, the air was nearly tangible from the experience.

"Have you heard anything at all?" Meg inquired softly.

"Not a word." Christine stared out over the empty auditorium from the balcony level where they stood.

"I wish someone would say something soon," Meg groaned. "It is so nerve-wracking not to know what is happening, though I can venture a guess..."

Christine gave no more than a distant nod.

"Oh well, I suppose we'd better hurry back or we'll be late again and Maman will have both our heads on a platter!"

Christine Daaé dropped her pensive gaze from the manacled and blindfolded statuary of nude women that ringed the top tier of the darkened auditorium and exchanged an anxious look with her dearest friend.

At times Christine felt equally chained to this establishment of the opera, ignorant of its inner workings and blinded to what was truly happening beneath the surface. She did not understand the mechanics of all that transpired beyond the stage of fake scenery; nor as a simple chorus girl was she meant to. But, like Meg, she sensed a drastic change would soon take place within the theatre, and she felt a restlessness to know the details.

Throughout her years in the musical edifice where she worked, lived, and played - first as a child of seven, and now as a woman of sixteen – she'd heard nervous whispers of a tyrannical king along with the frightened claims of a legendary Phantom, allegedly responsible for the occasional accident that occurred onstage and off during the past three years.

Secrets…so many secrets, the theatre was crowded with them, but Christine possessed the one most wondrous, a secret cherished for nearly a decade. She had never even told Meg, uncertain if her friend would understand or think her mad, though as children, in that first week Christine had been visited, she had hinted to vivid allusions. But when later he gave the quiet command never to tell a soul, she had obeyed. As she always obeyed...

Even if she had begun to doubt what, for years, he'd led her to believe.

The two girls hurried backstage, down a spiral staircase and along the next level to the dressing room. In the distance Christine spotted Madame Giry, absorbed in reading something she held while clutching a golden goblet in her other hand. Odd. Christine had never seen her ballet instructor drink wine from anything but the crystal glasses scattered about her room. Odder still, the elder woman did not appear to notice the hustle and bustle going on all around her - the crew busy at their daily morning tasks, the chorus frantic at applying stage makeup and donning costumes before the first rehearsal was called, those already outfitted practicing in every available space backstage. Cast and crew rehearsed and worked, talked and shouted, rushing to and fro. But Madame appeared not even to notice them, and Christine curiously watched the slim figure in black, her eyes then lifting to a huge shield-like medallion of a lion's head that hung on the wall near where Madame Giry stood. 'The beastly ruler of the kingdom,' Christine had once heard a dancer snidely remark to another as they walked past it.

Christine clasped Meg's arm to gain her attention. "There's your mother. We could ask her if she knows anything."

Meg glanced in the direction Christine nodded, and her muscle tensed beneath Christine's light hold.

"Meg?" She looked with puzzlement at her friend.

As quickly as unease clouded Meg's features, her eyes suddenly brightened. "Oh, let's not bother her right now – besides, if we do, she'll know that we're late!" She laughed lightly. "Come along - hurry, mon ami!"

Christine offered no argument, sensing Meg's words a convenient excuse, but she would also prefer to arrive to the practice area before Madame Giry arrived, not that their instructor seemed in any hurry to get there.

She and Meg giggled and traded snatches of light repartee regarding other performers they passed as they sped around the last bend, stopping at the box of chalk dust to coat the toes of their slippers for ease of dancing along the polished floor, before hurrying into the next chamber.

To Christine's astonished shock Madame was already there, moving along the two rows of dancers who stretched out at the barres. Her ever-present and unnecessary black walking stick tapped the planks as she watched and, on occasion, tapped against an unruly leg or prompted a slumped back to straighten.

How had she arrived before they did? Christine knew this theatre and its network of corridors like the veins that ran along her arm. There was no shortcut to allow for a swift arrival, none that she knew of.

Madame shot them a glare for their tardiness, and Christine buried her confusion, swiftly taking the vacant spot behind Meg at the barre, to stare straight ahead as she focused on her stretches...

As they practiced in the wings, the rehearsal of Hannibal's Triumph played out onstage, Piangi as Hannibal marching proudly with his men and declaring their victory over the enslaving force of Rome in song. From the vantage point of where she stood, Christine caught a blur in the darkness high to the right. Her attention shot to the rafters beyond the performers and the swirl of a black cloak as its owner drew it up around himself and stalked away in apparent rage.

She blinked in mystified shock. Surely it could not be…the Phantom!

Before she could grab Meg's arm to alert her to the skulking figure in the dark cape, who was neither workman nor scene shifter, the cloaked form disappeared as if he was never there. She stared hard into the darkness that remained only darkness. Perhaps, with all the mystery in the atmosphere of late, Christine only imagined the sight of the infamous Ghost. It stood to reason; in three years he had rarely been seen, and few of that number, according to legend, did not live to tell the tale...

The music from the orchestra came to an abrupt close. The performance and warm-ups abruptly ceased as cast and chorus stopped what they were doing to look at Monsieur Reyer in aggravated confusion, wondering where they had erred this time.

Monsieur Reyer seemed ready to throw his baton down in exasperation. "Monsieur Lefevre, I am rehearsing!"

"Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry, ladies and gentlemen, please, if I could have your attention, thank you." Focus shifted to Monsieur Lefevre who walked between two strange men Christine had never before seen, one short, with white curly hair, mustache and goatee, one tall and dark like Lefevre. "As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these are all true…"

Christine and Meg exchanged a look of surprise, each of them by their expression sharing the same thought:

Monsieur Lefevre was truly leaving? But why?

"And it is my pleasure to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire," Lefevre went on, "Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre. I'm sure you have read of their recent fortune amassed in the junk business -"

"Scrap metal, actually," the shorter of the two corrected.

"And we are deeply honored to introduce our new patron -" the man introduced as Firmin said.

"The Vicomte de Chagny!" his partner finished for him in a burst of enthusiasm.

Christine's eyes went wide with stunned shock to hear the name.

Meg put a hand to her shoulder. "Christine," she whispered, "are you alright?"

Still in a daze, she did not answer, but hurried nearer the stage to see, with Meg following. Her friend looked at her in concerned question when Christine abruptly stopped to stare.

No signs of the awkward ten-year old lad were apparent in the confident and well-dressed young gentleman who greeted those who flocked around him onstage. His hair had darkened to a light nut brown, no longer white-blond like the sun, but with that flashing smile that made one want to smile back - it was most assuredly her old playmate.

"It's Raoul," she breathed, barely aware she spoke. Seeing Meg's blatant curiosity, she went on to explain, "Before my father died, at the house by the sea…I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts. He called me Little Lotte."

"Oh, Christine, he's so handsome!"

She nodded in agreement, recalling those days. They had been so young, so lonely – his parents too busy with social affairs to pay their son any attention; Christine's father a recluse in his cottage, though she had not then known the extent of his illness. Raoul had been kind, a friend, the kiss he had dropped to her cheek one day mildly unsettling but soon forgotten as they built castles in the sand.

As she watched, further introductions were made, and Raoul, no – the Vicomte de Chagny as he was now called – expressed his gratitude and desire not to interfere with rehearsal, stating his eagerness to return that night for the performance and 'their great triumph'.

Christine tensed expectantly as he walked toward her, but though their eyes met briefly, he strode past without a word, and she felt the sting of his rejection. She shrugged, realizing her foolishness to suppose he would know her, the only similarity to the six-year-old child she'd been the presence of her long, dark ringlets of curls. "He wouldn't recognize me."

"He didn't see you," Meg offered in consolation.

Madame clapped her hands and swept toward the dancers as a signal that it was time for their number.

Outfitted for the manacles used in the Dance of the Slaves, several sets of three girls chained to one another leapt in ballet across the stage to the exotic music. Christine helped Meg fasten the iron around Meg's wrist before Meg also swept away with the two girls to whom she was chained. Christine was the only slave dancer to go unchained, though for a short few seconds of the dance, when her character sank in misery to her knees, she held a short chain by its manacles high above her head, only to lose it as she spun around and rose back to her feet.

She had been curious why she'd been singled out on their first day of practice, and what message her lack of chains was supposed to convey. "Perhaps you're the only one to break free of our dark master," Meg had lightly quipped, "and the only one able to free us as well. Hannibal sure hasn't done us much good."

Meg had giggled and Christine groaned at the witticism, rolling her eyes at such an outlandish idea. Her form was so slight and her limbs so thin, Meg once joked in concern that Christine should never step foot outside the Opera House once the spring winds swept through, because she would likely blow away to the other side of the city or break like a twig.

The idea of Christine Daaé being a savior to anyone was ludicrous, she who had always carried a childhood fear of the darkness and slept with a lit candle beside her bed...

Her cue swiftly came, and she cast all thoughts of the bizarre choreography from her mind as she stepped into her role as one of the many slave girls of Rome, giving herself over to the dance.

To sing on stage was her highest aspiration; yet to dance with the rest of the chorus also gave her pleasure. She had worked hard to achieve her position, not as stylish or adept at the dance as Meg, whose mother had once been prima ballerina, the likelihood that the daughter would follow in her ballet steps certain. Christine did not envy her friend her skill that seemed to come more easily for her than it did others. Indeed, she hoped for Meg one day to achieve her dream, planning to be there to cheer her every step of the way.

Perhaps there was an Angel of Dance who had touched Meg, as there was an Angel of Music...if, in truth, he did exist.

As Christine lightly executed her closing steps, she glanced over at her friend who was involved in another peculiar bit of choreography: Meg, now with both wrists manacled, wrapped her chains around the neck of one of the male dancers with red-painted skin, one of several who portrayed their tormentors, and dragged him backward offstage. Beside him, a man of similar height and costume, with no chain to hinder, wrapped his hands around his own throat as if he felt the pain of his comrade and was also being dragged back by chains, these invisible to the eye. The new managers shared a conspiratorial laugh, Monsieur Andre throwing one manacle over his shoulder from the chain that had appeared around his own thick neck.

After a series of spins, Christine, along with the other slave girls - all of them suddenly freed from their chains - gracefully fell to one knee in a bow as the music came to a rousing finish.

"All day! All they want is the dancing!" Carlotta wailed in anger as the notes of the instruments faded into the empty auditorium.

Christine stood to her feet and drifted closer to Meg, as they watched Carlotta throw yet another one of her hissy fits. The diva offered complaints, the managers offered compliments – but neither seemed satisfied. Then one of the new managers suggested, with flattery dripping off his tongue, that Carlotta sing Elissa's aria from Act Three. The diva underwent an amazing but unsurprising transformation, from the sour pucker of a lemon to the crystallized sweetness of syrup -

It was enough to make Christine sick.

She rolled her eyes and shared a long-suffering look with Meg. Yet the worst was yet to come, and as Carlotta took her place, center stage, Christine noticed a few of the servants in the auditorium stuff pieces of cotton into their ears and wished they had some to spare.

"Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said gooood-bye…"

Carlotta's caterwaul sailed into heights, painful to the ears, and Christine winced as the song endured.

"Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you'll trrryyy...When you find, that once again, you long to take your heart back and be freeeeee..."

Meg suddenly screamed, startling Christine. She turned in concern to look at her friend, who stared with horror into the flies. A prolonged creak came from high above, and every shocked eye lifted upward to see myriad yards of heavy tapestry used as a backdrop flutter down in rapid descent. Meg and Christine grabbed each other's arms, pulling the other back, and watched the threat unfold: La Carlotta sustained her faltering high note, oddly unaware of the tableau of danger – the fractured sound ending in a garbled cry as the tapestry found its target and landed squarely on the back of the diva's unsuspecting shoulders.

Christine blinked in terrified shock and turned her eyes up to the empty flies, her heart in her mouth as she glimpsed dark shadows shift and move.

"He's here," Meg breathed, turning to regard Christine with wide brown eyes. "The Phantom of the Opera!"

Troubled, Madame Giry looked at her daughter, before hurrying away toward the melee. Several men rushed forward to pull the weapon of cloth from the prone diva, who cursed and cried and snapped as she was helped awkwardly to her feet. The golden, crown-like hat that she earlier complained to hate, with its red jewel affixed in the mouth of a carved monkey, had managed to remain upon her head, and she now put her hand to where it covered her brow as if it pained her.

"Sigñora," Lefvere asked. "Are you alright? Buquet, for God's sake, man, what is going on up there?"

Christine, along with the others, looked up to the flies where the stagehand pulled on a wheel that brought the fallen scenery up off the stage.

"Please, monsieur, don't look at me. As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post. Please, monsieur, there's no one there. And if there is, well then… it must be a ghost," he snickered.

With the insolent tone he used, Christine wouldn't be surprised had he cackled in glee, and she recalled how Joseph Buquet took enormous pleasure in scaring the chorus girls with talk of the Opera Ghost. By his boasts, he had been one of the few to see him - and live.

"Sigñora, these things do happen," one of the new managers tried to placate their star, but being so new to the theatre and the opera - how could he know of the accidents? Had someone told him?

"For the past three years, 'these things do happen.'" Carlotta sneered, lifting her index finger in emphasis. "And did you stop them from happening? No! And you two! You are as bad as him…!"

As Carlotta continued her tirade, Christine glanced at Meg, noting her attention was fixed elsewhere. Christine followed her pensive stare to see Madame Giry slowly walk the perimeter of the stage while staring up into the flies.

Carlotta exited center stage in an angry tizzy, her entourage following in her wake. But what captured Christine's attention was the white rectangle of paper that fluttered to the ground near where Madame Giry stood. Gracefully, she bent to retrieve it, looked high into the rafters once more, then broke open what was sure to be the seal of a red skull and unfolded the missive.

"I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost," she said, almost amused.

"Oh God in heaven you're all obsessed," Firmin remarked in disgust.

Madame gave a quirk of a smile. "He welcomes you to his opera house -"

"His opera house?"

"And commands that you leave Box Five empty for his use…" She pointed with her walking stick to the box nearest the stage, luridly adorned with a leering skull and two complete skeletons. Twin statues of veiled women slaves, each with upraised arms holding a rope, flanked each side. "…and he reminds you that his salary is due."

"His salary?"

"Well, Monsieur Lefevre used to give him 20,000 francs a month…"

Christine listened to the demands of the well renowned Phantom of the Opera with avid interest. She knew of his existence, everyone in the theatre did, had thought she'd seen him only moments ago - but never, until now, had she heard one of his notes read aloud that so explicitly detailed his private requirements. Usually, they only had to do with the current production, the dancers, the orchestra - but these sounded like the commands of a king…

Which gave Christine pause to wonder…

She felt her arm tugged and turned to Meg, who pulled her a piece back from the ongoing circus.

"Those two clowns don't seem to know how things are run here," Meg leaned close to her ear to whisper, "but they'll learn soon enough. At least we know now why everyone has been acting so strangely."

Christine vaguely nodded and, unable to refrain, quietly broached what was uppermost on her mind. "Meg, do you think the hidden king of the Opera House and the Phantom could be one and the same?"

"What…?" her friend regarded her with wary surprise. "Whatever makes you say that?"

"It stands to reason, doesn't it? We have been told the two exist, were taught to respect one and fear the other and obey both – but what if it's the same man?"

"Why would a king engage in such a ruse?" Meg argued just as softly.

"Maybe he's a bit mad?" Christine half joked, startled from their private conversation when she heard her name loudly announced.

"Christine Daaé could sing it, sir." Madame Giry approached, and clasped her behind the shoulder, drawing her forward.

"What, a chorus girl?" one of the new managers scoffed. "Don't be silly."

"She has been taking lessons from a great teacher."

"Who?"

Startled, Christine floundered with what to say. She could not tell them her secret: that an angel in the night had visited her since she was seven, but in recent years she'd begun to doubt the validity of his claim to celestial mastery. And, of late, had even dared to wonder as to his probable mortality…no. They would think her mad if she said any of what ran through her present thoughts!

"I don't know his name, monsieur," she said quietly.

"Let her sing for you," Madame suggested. "She has been well taught!"

Christine eyed Madame Giry in a mild panic – what was she doing? Yes, she had been taking lessons from her Angel for nearly a decade, but this was happening much too fast. She was not yet ready to sing solo in front of a crowd of her peers! These men – and she suddenly realized – they were looking for a replacement for La Carlotta! Someone to take the lead! She felt a little lightheaded with the scope of what suddenly lay before her, what was expected of her, and looked toward her ballet instructor with nervous uncertainty. Madame nodded in calm reassurance. Even Meg smiled in encouragement. But Meg didn't know what to expect, had never heard her sing, not like this…

It's only a song, she tried to tell herself, you have sung these same lines before, when in the chapel with your teacher.

Her teacher, her Maestro whom she still thought of as her Angel. His genius he had given to her freely, whether he be mortal or celestial, and she desperately relied on his gifts now.

Nudged gently to center stage, she let her eyes briefly fall shut to block out their skeptical faces and brace her fledgling confidence...

And then, Christine Daaé lifted her voice in song.

All around, members of the cast and crew drew closer in disbelief and awe, while high above, the shadows grew still and watched with silent approval.

xXx

A/N: Would love to know what you think – :) Also if you have any confusion or questions with regard to how I wrote the symbolism, etc, feel free to comment or ask.