Stronger
An Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera Fic
Featuring songs by Kristine W, James Horner & Will Jennings, Abigail
Words in italics are sung.
Christine sank to her knees at the foot of the steps leading up to her father's crypt. She bowed her head, blinking back the tears that threatened, feeling the cold damp of the snow-covered stone seep through her black velvet dress. Thoughts tumbled round and round in her head, faded memories of her long-dead father mixing and merging with sharp, vivid images of the Phantom. Why couldn't she get them out of her mind? What was the connection between them? Or was it all simply a lie, a convenience the Phantom had seized upon long ago, when his voice had first called to her, singing words of comfort, of love, as she had knelt in the opera house's tiny chapel, much as she knelt now, crying for her father?
The soft, sweet strains of a violin began wafting through the cemetery. She looked up, puzzled, unable to pinpoint the direction of the sound, but recognizing the familiar melody. She only had time to think, "He's here," before his voice sent a shiver through her.
"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance..." The words echoed round the graveyard, bouncing off the granite headstones, surrounding her, filling her soul, thrilling her to her core. At last, she would know the truth, here in the light of day, away from the eternal night of the opera house. Finally she would know if her Phantom was real, or the leftover figment of a child's imagination.
"Angel or father, friend or Phantom, who is it there, staring?" Christine answered, getting to her feet. "Angel, oh speak, what endless longings echo in this whisper?"
A light began to glow behind the doors of her father's crypt. "Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my fathering gaze," the Phantom called to her, the tenderness in his voice warming her.
Fear fluttered in her stomach, but she had to know the truth. She began to ascend the steps, answering, "Wildly my mind beats against you, yet the soul obeys..."
As she neared the mausoleum, the doors began to slowly open, beckoning her inside as the Phantom's voice merged with hers. "Angel of Music, I denied you, turning from true beauty...Angel of Music, my protector, come to me, strange angel..." He was inside; he had to be. In a moment, she would have her answer.
The sound of hoofbeats registered in some far off part of her brain, but she couldn't turn around, fearing if she did, the music, and her Angel, would disappear.
"No! Christine! Wait! Wait!"
"Raoul!" Turning, Christine saw her fiancé jumping from the back of a horse at mid-gallop, drawing his sword as his feet touched the ground.
"Whatever you may believe, this man...this thing...is not your father!" he cried, racing up the stairs toward her.
She stared at him in surprise. How did he find her? Why was he here? She looked back toward the crypt, her heart sinking as she saw the light no longer shone from within. The Phantom, where was he?
A great black shape appeared atop the mausoleum. A dark-winged angel, it swooped down upon them. Only as it landed did Christine discern the white half mask of the Phantom. As he flipped back his cape, she saw the silver gleam of the sword clutched in his hand. With a cry of rage, he swung at Raoul. The Vicomte deflected the blow with his own weapon though the Phantom's strength drove him back, forcing him to jump from the crypt to the cemetery grounds.
Raoul stumbled as he landed, and Christine gasped. But he was on his feet in an instant, his blade ringing as it met the Phantom's. The fight moved away from the mausoleum, and Christine ran to follow them, wanting to scream, to call out for them to stop, but for once her voice failed her. Shocked at the Phantom's sudden and violent appearance, Christine was stunned into silence by the terrible realization that they were fighting over her.
The Phantom followed a broad sweep of his cape with his rapier, slashing Raoul across the shoulder. Blood stained the snow atop one of the graves as he fell, but Raoul arose swinging, catching the Phantom's blade with his own. Using both hands to bear his sword down, he drove the Phantom to his knees and the sword from his grasp. The Phantom scrambled after it, but Raoul kicked the weapon away as he reversed his grip on his own sword in preparation for the killing blow.
Christine suddenly found her voice. "No! Raoul!" But her words came too late to stop the downward thrust. Eyes wide in horror, she could only watch as the blade descended, the Phantom giving a guttural cry as the sword pierced his flesh. She felt as though the weapon had penetrated her own heart, stopping it, the air suddenly gone from her lungs. Calling out "Angel!", Christine dashed toward him, dropping to her knees beside the fallen Phantom.
For a moment, she thought he was dead, but then a groan escaped his lips, and she caught a glimpse of his jade green eyes under half-closed lids. Tearing off her scarf, Christine pressed it against the wound, noting with some small relief that he must have been moving when Raoul had struck, as the sword had penetrated his side, not his heart. Still, the injury bled copiously, quickly soaking the thin scarf, his blood hot on her hands.
Christine looked up at Raoul. He held his bloodstained sword in a loose grip, fury fading from his eyes and his expression changing to one of revulsion in the realization of what he had done. She had to call his name several times before he responded. "Raoul! Please! You must ride for help. Hurry!"
Waking from his trance, her fiancé nodded, wiping a trembling hand over his face before running to the patiently waiting steed he had arrived on. Clambering up on the animal's back, he wheeled the horse around and set his heels into its sides. The stallion sprang into a gallop.
As the hoofbeats faded in the distance, Christine and her Angel were finally alone in the midst of the silently falling snowflakes. She continued to apply pressure to his wound, unsure if her meager assistance was of any help, but she couldn't sit by and do nothing, not when her friend's life was at stake.
Her friend-invisible, unseen, but always there whenever she had needed him. His had been the soft voice in the darkness, singing her to sleep, comforting her when childish taunts had sent her running for the sanctuary of the chapel and her loving Angel. When had she forgotten that? The moment Raoul had appeared at the opera house? Was that the reason her Angel had finally chosen to reveal himself to her, because he sensed she would forget all about him with Raoul in her life again?
The memories of that night were hazy, like a half-remembered dream-a boat ride on a mist-shrouded lake, two voices entwining as one; a fantastic grotto alight with the glow from a hundred candles; his music, his beautiful song filling her heart, giving her soul wings; the terrible crash of his anger, the face beneath the mask an image worthy of a nightmare. It had been real. He had been real. She knew that in her heart. Why had she ever allowed Raoul to convince her otherwise? Why had she denied it? Why had she denied her Angel?
"Christine..."
A tear slipped from the corner of his eye and down the uncovered side of his face. Instinctively she reached up to brush it away, but the sight of her crimson stained fingers stopped her. Instead she leaned over him, pressing her cheek to his. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I'm so sorry, Angel."
"Christine...I love you..."
She pulled back enough to meet his eyes, almost drowning in the mix of emotions she saw reflected there. Pain, and fear, but most of all...love. His love for her shone more brightly than the sun, the moon and stars combined; her breath caught in her throat at the sight of it. The fear faded away the longer she looked, replaced by a calm acceptance. She realized he could die now in a snow-covered graveyard happily, joyously, as long as she was at his side. His eyes began to close.
Tears spilled down Christine's face. How could she have been so blind? "No! Angel, you are not going to die here. Promise me, swear to me!"
His eyelids fluttered. "What?"
"Swear to me you will not die here!"
Confusion evident in his expression, he still did as she asked. "I swear I will not die here, Christine, though I think there is little either of us can do to stop it."
Christine's thoughts were racing, pulling up every memory of every visit she had made to her father's grave. There was a surgeon's nearby; the sign on the house was vivid in her mind. "The carriage! Where did you leave the carriage?" She knew now he had been in the driver's seat that morning.
"Back gate," he managed as Christine helped him to a sitting position, then put his arm around her shoulders.
"Get up," she commanded. With her aid, he made it to his feet, though the uncovered side of his face was as white as his mask when he had done so. Slowly, they made their way around her father's mausoleum and between the headstones, her Angel leaning heavily on her, clutching her scarf to his injury. She looked back only once at the crimson trail they left behind, then she turned her eyes toward the far gate, where she could glimpse the matched pair of blacks through the cemetery fence.
"Just a little further," Christine encouraged him. His reply was a grunt of pain, but his footsteps never faltered. Upon reaching the entrance, she propped him against the iron bars of the fence while she pulled the heavy gate open. Turning back around, she found him on his hands and knees in the snow.
"Angel!" Grasping him by the arm, she attempted to lift him back up.
"It's no use, Christine," he rasped. "I have no more strength..."
Kneeling in front of him, she cupped his cheek in her hand, no long caring that she marked him in blood. "Angel, please try, I beg of you. Don't leave me all alone."
"You won't be alone. You'll have your precious Raoul." Even at a whisper, the Phantom made the Vicomte's name sound like a curse.
"Raoul is not my Angel of Music, the man who's been my one true companion all these years. It is you I cannot bear the thought of living without."
The Phantom stared at her for a long moment, as if her words had revealed to him a new world, one he had never before considered within his grasp. An expression of fierce determination came over his face, and he placed his hand in hers. Seizing both his hand and arm, Christine again levered them upright.
Once through the gate, she half-dragged, half-lifted him into the open carriage, settling her Angel in the seat directly behind the driver's perch. Hiking up her skirt nearly to her waist, Christine scrambled up front, picking up the reins and crying "Hyah!" The horses broke into a trot, then a gallop as she urged them forward through the snow that was now falling thick and fast.
Reaching back with one hand, Christine found her Angel's shoulder, feeling him press his head against her hip. "It's not far," she yelled to him over the clatter of hooves and the rumble of the wheels on the cobblestones.
His hand came up to cover her own, his fingers tightening around hers. The small gesture gave her hope.
Slapping the reins against the horses' backs, she yelled at them once again, the carriage surging ahead through the gray light of dawn.
Every jolt of the carriage was another knife in his side, turning his vision red, stealing the breath from his chest. It was a good sign, he told himself. Better he should suffer and know he was still alive, than to realize by misery's absence he was dying. He leaned his cheek against Christine's skirt, the feel of the velvet caressing his skin a sharp contrast to the pain pulsing through him with every beat of his heart.
He had only wanted to be alone with her, to try to explain, to tell her he loved her. He had gone to the Bal Masqué the night before out of anger, at Firmin and André, at the boy for stealing Christine away from him, at Christine for allowing it. But when he had stood on the steps in the main lobby, his sword in hand, feeling the terror his mere presence caused in those poor, ignorant sheep, his temper was assuaged.
And then there was Christine, a vision in the palest pink, a perfect rosebud among the weeds. He couldn't help himself, couldn't stop staring, his heart racing, his breath ragged from the mere sight of her. She had been affected by it too; he could see it in her eyes. She felt the connection between them. She was drawn up the stairs toward him, as he couldn't help but descend to her. Then he had seen the ring, known what it meant, known its foul presence around her neck was one more loss he had suffered to his vile rival. And yet, when he had torn it from her, he had discovered that the fact that she wore it on a chain, and not on her finger, gave him hope. She had accepted the Vicomte's ring, but not him, not completely. A part of her still cared for her Angel of Music.
It had been that part of her he had wanted to reach that morning. A trip with her alone, away from the opera house, away from the boy, it had seemed perfect. Too perfect in hindsight, yet he had accomplished more than he had ever dared hope for. He might die for his foolishness in confronting the boy, but he could die knowing Christine cared for him, truly cared, which was more than he had dreamed of having in his lifetime.
He felt her hand come to rest on his shoulder, and he reached up to take it, squeezing her fingers, letting her know he wasn't going to give up. Then he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and tried to remain conscious. It wasn't easy, and by the time he felt the carriage come to a halt, he had somehow become detached from the pain, from any kind of sensation at all, truth be told. The thought crossed his mind that probably was an ominous portent.
In the distance, he could hear Christine calling for help, the slamming of doors, footsteps coming toward him. Hands grasped him under the arms and by the legs. Awareness came back in the form of agony shooting through every nerve in his body as he was lifted from the carriage and transported inside a building. He might have screamed. His vision faded in and out, blurred by what he realized were his own tears.
The hands holding him lifted him up onto a table and then blessedly left him. Again he heard Christine's voice, shaking, frightened, but speaking of him with affection, with pride, as her friend, her teacher. Then her hand was on his cheek-he would know her touch anywhere-and she was talking to him, asking him to open his eyes. He succeeded in doing so, though it seemed to take a very long time from the thought until he was actually gazing up at her.
She was crying. He didn't want her to be crying. "Christine..."
"Angel, remember your promise...please don't leave me," she whispered.
"I promise," he managed, then her fingers were gently lifting his mask, and a second one was placed over his nose and mouth. The new mask smelled strangely and for a moment he felt fear. Then darkness descended upon him, and he no longer felt anything at all.
There it is, the first chapter of my new fic. I'll let you in on a secret. It's complete. I plan on posting 2-3 times a week. Reviews are always welcome. I love to know what you think!