I don't own the Phantom of the Opera or anything pertaining to it.
Many thanks to Bee, Jenn, and Nite, who encouraged me to post this before I thought I would.
Chapter One: Taking a Name, Losing an Identity
He stalked down the hidden passage, angry with the world and angry with himself. He had thought that solitude had hardened his soul, but obviously he had been mistaken. Once again, contact with the outside world had brought it crashing home that he didn't belong in it, and he was amazed to find that it still hurt. He had thought he had distanced himself enough for the ruse not to affect him.
For ten years now he had lived almost entirely in isolation beneath the Paris Opera House. He had almost never left it, never let himself be seen. Other than fetching needed supplies, he had no reason to leave. Even the grim emptiness of the Opera cellars was better than the hell his life had been before he found refuge there.
He had carved himself a kingdom out of the darkness, a haven devoted entirely to his music. Music that sustained him. It was his only way of showing the feelings that he had.
But even his music could not dampen the need for some human contact, and so, after ten years, he had decided to emerge and make himself known, after a fashion. It had seemed a brilliant idea to him—a way to provide himself with all that he needed without resorting to bald pick pocketing. A chance to hone his talents for manipulation.
The Opera House was truly his playground. He knew all of its secrets and moved with ease anywhere within it without the fear of being seen. But he had grown tired of being an invisible observer. He considered the Opera House his domain, his kingdom above ground, so why not exert some control over it?
He had just come from the Manager's Office from delivering his first note to that effect, and he had signed it with his new identity, The Phantom of the Opera, or O.G.—Opera Ghost. All good theaters should have their ghost, and he had decided to step into that role. It was perfect for his purposes.
Yes, he thought, let them follow my demands, slight as they are, and I will make this Opera House the envy of Paris.
Perhaps he would even permit them to perform one of his own operas—once they learned that this was his Opera House. But he didn't think this would happen right away. He chuckled maliciously as he remembered the look on Lefevre's face as the manager had read the note. The man had clearly been skeptical of its origins; he never had believed in the stories told by the ballet corps.
No, the Phantom reasoned, he will not believe I exist right away, but he will. The ballet corps and most of the stagehands certainly already believed in him. They were superstitious by nature, and all the tricks he had played on them over the years had cemented his existence into absolute fact in the minds of the theater folk.
But it still felt like a betrayal to actually cast himself into that role.
When he'd assumed the identity of the Phantom, it was as if he himself had died, to be replaced by a legend, a myth, a ghost.
He ruthlessly pushed all regret down; with this identity he could influence everything that went on inside of the Opera House. He would actually have as much or more power than the manager. And as long as he could remain undisturbed to write his music that was all that mattered. It was.
His route back to his lair took him past the chapel, and as he went by he could suddenly hear the sound of muffled sobbing. Curious, he stooped down and peered through a well-hidden peephole into the room, being careful not to make a sound. The room was dark except for a single candle being held by a young girl of ten or so; from her dress she was one of the ballet rats he was constantly playing tricks on. Curious as to why a ballet rat was crying alone in the chapel—they usually ran in packs and were not overly religious—he decided to linger and see what she was upset about. It might be worth knowing, if only for later mischief.
As he watched, the crying girl knelt, and lit another candle on the candle stand above a picture of a man, tears streaming down her cheeks. The candlelight flickered across her face, showing how thin and pale it was, and casting deep shadows under her eyes.
After a few moments of watching her pray in silence, the Phantom was getting ready to leave, when suddenly she spoke. "Father," she sobbed, "why did you have to die and leave me all alone? I miss you so much." Her sobs overtook her for a moment before she could continue, "You promised, Father. You promised when you were in heaven you would send me the Angel of Music, but he hasn't come. Does that mean you don't care about me anymore? Or maybe it was all a lie, and there is no Angel of Music."
The girl began to cry harder, resting her head against the candle-stand, her thin shoulders shaking. Kneeling in the pool of candlelight, she resembled an angel herself, despite the ravages of tears on her face. The Phantom noticed that even while crying her voice was pure and sweet as she spoke. Surprisingly, the Phantom felt a surge of pity towards the girl; she seemed so tiny and alone, someone else who felt the pain of isolation.
On an impulse that shocked him, he called out to her, making sure his voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, "Why do you weep, little one?"
In the chapel, the girl gasped and clambered awkwardly to her feet. She looked around, searching the shadowy corners of the room for who could have spoken. "Who's there? Who is it?"
The Phantom thought quickly for a reply, but she had given it to him herself. "Were you not praying for an Angel of Music?" he asked soothingly, not wanting to frighten her more.
The change these words brought about was astonishing. The girl's face lit up, and she seemed to almost glow with an inner radiance. "You're the Angel of Music?" she asked breathlessly.
The Phantom laughed internally at the thought of anyone calling him an angel—demon was more like it—and answered, "Yes, I'm your Angel of Music."
"Are you here to teach me to sing?"
"Of course, if that is what you want. But first you must tell me your name," he answered, savoring the happiness that illuminated her features. It had been a long time since he had caused anything but shock and fear.
She smiled shyly, "I'm Christine. But what should I call you?"
The Phantom only hesitated a moment before replying, "Just call me your Angel." Once again he was assuming an identity not his own, but this one he didn't mind. He had felt surprisingly little reluctance in revealing himself and committing to give this Christine voice lessons, despite his long habits of solitude and mistrust of other people. Her innocence seemed to call out to him.
The Phantom began Christine's first lesson then and there. He marveled at the purity and feeling of her small voice—when she grew into it, it would be stunning indeed. Christine herself put every effort into the lesson, obeying him instantly and without question whenever he corrected her. As the lesson progressed the sadness eased out of her face, leaving only the salt of her tears behind.
It was only when she grew tired that he reluctantly sent her on her way, cautioning her not to tell anyone about her new lessons. She'd promised immediately and left the chapel, little resembling the desolate girl he had discovered there. He had never brought another person such happiness before, and the feeling thrilled him.
After Christine had left, he stood still in the passage for a moment, replaying the lesson in his mind. Astonishingly he looked forward to the next one. He frowned briefly at the thought and tried to tell himself that it was passing music on to someone that he enjoyed. He wouldn't admit it was the human contact that motivated him, the chance to talk with someone without fear. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts—there was one person who needed to know about his encounter with Christine and what had come of it.
He moved through more secret tunnels until he reached the rooms of the only other person to know of his existence—Madame Giry, the ballet instructor. She had long been his only link to the outside world, and he had other reasons to be grateful to her besides. Sliding open the secret panel, the Phantom slipped into her rooms.
Madame Giry was writing in her journal when she heard the whisper of cloth on across the wood floor behind her. No one had come through the door. She sat down her pen, capped her bottle of ink, and turned to face the masked man taking a seat in a chair behind her, the slight rustling of fabric the only sound indicating his presence. She surveyed him calmly, "Erik—"
"It's not Erik anymore," came the harsh interruption. "It's the Phantom of the Opera now. I've just come from making my debut." His voice was bitter and harsh.
Madame Giry raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. Long ago she had hid Erik in the depths of the Opera House and had watched as he had made it his own. That he had taken his manipulations into the open did not really surprise her. He was too brilliant to be content to stay in anonymity forever.
His face was as inscrutable as ever—he wore more masks than the white porcelain one covering the right side of his face—but he never came unless he had something important to say, so she got up and locked the door. It wouldn't do to have someone walk in on them.
He watched her without comment. She sat back down and stared at him, wondering what he was about. She didn't say anything—Erik would speak when he wanted to, and not before. She had learned that over the years. He was an intensely private person, and even after all this time she was still not privy to most of his thoughts. But, as it turned out, she didn't have to wait long for him to begin.
Across the room he leaned back in his chair, his face mostly in shadow, and steepled his fingers, "I want to know about one of your ballet rats—Christine."
"Christine Daaé?" her tone was surprised. Out of all the things she had expected him to speak of, this was perhaps the last.
In all the years he had been here, Erik had never before shown interest in another person, he did not even inquire much about her daughter, Meg. Erik nodded, and Madame Giry wondered at this sudden change as she answered him, "She's an orphan. Her father was the Swedish violinist, Charles Daaé. He wrote before he died, asking me to take care of her. But why…"
But it became clear that he wasn't going to give her a straight answer. Instead, he stood to leave. "I'm giving her voice lessons now, every evening in the chapel. See that she had no other obligations to meet." He took a step towards the secret panel, then stopped and turned back, "And don't tell her about me either."
Madame Giry turned the information over in her mind. He was giving voice lessons to Christine? "Stop!" she called to him and was a little surprised when he actually paused. She went over and gripped his sleeve, "Erik, what are you doing? Why have you revealed yourself now, after all these years?"
Then his last words sunk in, "She hasn't seen you. You're throwing your voice!" He had learned that trick years ago, using it to scare the ballet corps by seeming to whisper in their ears. Many times she had seen someone stop in the middle of a hallway and look wildly from side to side, trying the find the voice that was whispering to them. She wondered why Christine hadn't been frightened of a disembodied voice, but that could be found out later. The important thing now was to find out what Erik was up to.
He simply looked down at her, his yellow eyes beginning to glimmer with anger. She paid no heed as she continued, "How long is this deception supposed to last, Erik? How long do you think she'll accept being taught by a voice from a wall before she starts asking questions? What will you do when she demands to see you for herself? Think, Erik. Think about what you are doing!" She spoke urgently; she could see no good coming from his strange interest in an orphaned ballet rat. Even after all these years, the urge to protect him was still strong.
Coldly, Erik removed her hand from his sleeve, "She will not question for a while yet. And when she does, maybe she'll have learned to trust the voice enough to trust the man."
Before she could reply he was gone—disappearing through the wall panel he had entered from. She stared at the blank wall for a moment before sinking down into the chair he had just vacated, massaging her temples with her hands, worried about what this change of events might mean. There were so many problems that could come from this. Someone might overhear them, and wonder who the voice from the wall was; her own daughter, Meg, was bound to be curious as to why Christine would leave each day.
But the most serious problem was posed by Christine herself. She might reveal what she was slipping off for each day. And sooner or later she would want to know the man behind the voice.
Erik's motives also worried her greatly. Madame Giry knew Erik as well as anyone could, and if he had revealed himself to her—even if only in voice—he had a reason for doing so besides voice lessons. Madame Giry knew that when Christine met him her reaction could give Erik the acceptance he craved, or it could destroy him.
She didn't know why Erik had fixed his attention on Christine. The girl was an unexceptional dancer, quiet and shy, apt to fade into the background. So how had he noticed her? Before, playing tricks had been about the extent of Erik's interest in the ballet corps, and she didn't know what had made him change his mind. All that she could do was prepare Christine as best she could and pray that Erik was right, and Christine would trust the voice enough to trust the man. She would have to wait for the future to resolve itself.
To answer a few questions before they get started. Yes, this is a retelling. But I've rearranged things a lot. Purists will probably hate this. I've been writing on this since March, when it was started as a direct response to the movie. I've grown a lot since then, and I hope this story has grown too. The other things I have posted are all fairly short; this story promises tobe massive. It's quite a change for me, and I'm a tad nervous.Thank you for your time! -Mongie