Chapter Text
Picking up the lantern that hung on the rack next to the hidden door, the Phantom set off with Christine still yelling in his ear.
“My dear, the whole building is going to collapse if you don’t stop your shouting,” he commented, annoyed at her persistence.
She groaned and snapped back, “What on Earth compelled you to commit such an atrocity?!”
It was all for you, he wanted to say. But, it was not the proper time for such sentiments.
“My temper flew over me. I just could not stand to watch those people torment you and do nothing about it.” He held his head low, avoiding her irate eyes by looking at the bricked ground.
They reached an intersection in the vast maze of tunnels. He went opposite the way that would have taken him back to the space above the ceiling. It was a lot less dusty than the other route, having broomed it for his daily travels to the opera house.
Christine tugged on the silken cloth that made up the back of his collar. “I cannot begin to imagine the level of stupidity for what you did.”
“I know,” he said in a voice so faint that he believed only the frolicking mice could hear. Christine had heard him say this, though, and spoke once again, but with a little more lightness than before.
“I appreciate your concern for me, but this is not the way you should handle these things. How could you live with yourself knowing you could have hurt someone?” She shuddered at the thought of something worse but decided to tell him straight forward, “God forbid, how could you possibly live with someone else’s blood on your palms?”
He kept silent once having heard her statements. His mind was none the wiser, however; the whole ordeal left him feeling torn between telling her that he was responsible, albeit partially, for the deaths of some or keeping this information from her. But, he knew the consequences had he released it; she would not dare speak to him again, let alone have him train her voice. She would come to view him as a deranged freak just as anyone else who encountered him.
However, the moralistic side of him argued otherwise. Christine was not one to be so judgemental when faced with unusual circ*mstances. The woman was known for her strange inclination to accept things as they were, which, to the bewilderment of her opera peers, was welcomed by him with open arms. The rest of Paris, from what he had come to observe, paled in comparison when it came to compassion. Parisians could not border the amount of warmth Christine had in her heart for those who failed to meet their standards.
Turning his head slightly to see her face, he saw that her brows were knitted together and her nose scrunched. Her glare, although softened, was still there, and upon meeting her eyes he looked away.
He thought it best not to infuriate her with more confounding news. After all, she would not have taken it so steadily as she would have if it were any other night. Rest was what she needed right now, not more to worry over.
Christine was awaiting an answer to her previous questions, but as she had predicted, he had avoided them like the plague. Deciding not to fuss over it anymore, she loosened her grip on his collar and adjusted herself on his arms so that her knee could sit comfortably. Her bout of frustration had somehow made her forget the stinging pain that surrounded her right leg.
Eventually, her annoyance at his disposition soon diluted to mere disappointment. She had known he was a man of ill behavior—his habits fueled by a lack of interaction with the world above. But she had never seen it in fruition like this. He was by no means a cruel man, seen by his timidity towards her. Their time together proved that he was of benevolent nature; unlike all the men she had stumbled upon he had been the only one who lacked any ulterior motives. Even her run-ins with the Comte suggested that he was searching for more than just friendship, especially with the knowledge of his various affairs with the Corps de Ballet. Indeed, the Phantom was a mysterious fellow, but he was also a dignified one at that. Though, now she had a brief introduction to his temper, as infrequent as it might have been.
Silence hung thick in the moist air as they traversed through the cellars of brick. The lack of words left them listening to creaking noises and sounds originating from what Christine believed were rodents. At some point, she could even swear she heard a frog croak. Despite the light from the lantern, nothing was discernible except black clouds of darkness just a few meters ahead.
Her voice broke the lingering quietness. “Where are we going?”
The Phantom perked his head up to meet her inquisitive expression. Her hazel eyes shone from the warm lantern light, highlighting her jewel-like irises. The sight caught him awestruck and he found himself pausing for much longer than he should have.
“I am taking you to my home.”
He bit his lip when her eyes widened after telling her that. It was a shame for someone like him, a man who she came to learn was blessed with a multitude of artistic abilities, to bring her to a place like this and have the gall to call it a ‘home’. What cruel irony, and what cruel embarrassment was this fate he was cursed to endure.
“How long have you resided in these cellars?”
Her question left him somewhat startled. Anyone else would have jumped out of his grasp and ran back to the world above after learning where his home was.
“Ever since I was born.”
The response was unnatural to him when hearing it out loud. Truly, he had never told anybody these matters that were only privy to him.
She raised an eyebrow, hinting at him to elaborate.
In an attempt to lighten the mood, he jested, “My, don’t you know that it is improper to ask a man his age? You of all people should know that.” His smile dropped when he did not see the sternness on her face go away.
“First of all, that applies to women only.” She wagged a finger in front of his mask. “And second, I’m not going to humor you. Pray tell, I want to understand you.”
She saw his eyes dilate from that simple request; had he not worn his mask, he would have looked as shocked as last night’s audience when she first broke her aria.
With slight hesitation, he began, “Well, as you may know, I have spent quite a lot of time learning the ins and outs of this place. The Palais Garnier, that is. I have read every book in the Bibliothèque de l’Opera front to back, ever since I was a child. And what would normally take people their entire lifetime to study, I have done in thirty years. Actually, a little less because nobody comes out of the womb knowing the entirety of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos.”
A small chuckle arrived from his mouth after saying that last line. Christine did not join him in his laughter but instead looked at him with the most astonished eyes. This man was an undisputed genius!
“I was not aware you were this talented.”
“Why, is that not insulting?” He jested again, this time with the success of making her laugh. It started small, with her trying to mask her merriment in her mission to stay serious. But, that was soon abandoned when the sound echoed through the vast, empty halls. To his surprise, Christine only laughed harder when her ears met the reverberating noise.
“My dear, it sounds like you are the true Phantom of the Opera!” He could not help himself from laughing alongside her as he continued to carry her through the bleak corridors he knew oh so well.
“I will faint if you don’t cease your jesting, ‘my dear’.” She jokingly made her voice lower a few octaves to mimic her masked companion. But it only made him spew out more heartily.
“I don’t sound like that!”
“You mustn't be so sure. How is one supposed to know what one sounds like from the ears of someone else?” Christine held her giggles in to hear what he had to say.
A long “hm” rolled from his throat as he thought of his next mode of attack.
“In that case, it wouldn’t be untrue if you were to sound like this…” He pitched his voice to sound like a little girl’s. “Hello, I’m Christine! A pleasure to meet your acquaintance!”
His laughs grew bolder from that remark and she playfully flicked the nose of his mask.
“Alright, Monsieur Pierrot, tell me more. What are your parents like? Do they work with the company?”
The bright smile that previously occupied his lips dimmed. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you? And yes, my parents did work with the company. My mother was a dancer in the Corps de Ballet. That is, until she met my father, a scrawny stagehand, who discovered her incredible ability to sing and encouraged her to audition. The dancers must have mentioned her to you—the great Belladova—no?”
“Oh yes, indeed they have. The girls still fawn over her grace to this day.”
“As skilled as she was in the art of ballet, her heart ached to sing. And my father was her first audience. I don’t know what she saw in him—a man who smelled of fish sandwiches and had nothing but a few Francs in his pocket. I suppose love does a great deal to overpower such trivial things.”
Christine nodded. “Does your father still work as a stagehand here?”
When he was about to answer she interrupted, “Oh, please don’t tell me your father is Eugene Allard!” She giggled at the name of the elderly opera employee who had worked at the Palais Garnier for longer than their ages combined.
“God, no. If he had been my father, I would have been a rotting old man by now.” He looked at her with mischievous eyes. “Not that you would mind.”
Red stormed her cheeks. She playfully shoved his shoulders. “Shut your mouth! I am not as unscrupulous as you may think.”
“I never said that you are,” he replied, pleased at making her flustered. “Besides, I believe you have met my father, Monsieur Gérard Carrière, the old house manager.”
He heard her gasp and added one last detail, “Don’t tell him I told you this. He has kept this information from me for as long as I have known him.”
She gave him a look of confusion, pleading for more answers. But, from that point, he decided not to tell her any more of his past. Only when she gets her rest, he thought.
Their conversation kept them company until they reached a body of water. The lantern’s light blanketed its surface, revealing water as murky as the phlegm people coughed up when stricken with catarrh.
Christine had heard tales of this mysterious lagoon beneath the opera house. The Corps de Ballet especially took great care in trying to frighten her about it. But, she never truly believed a word of what they spoke. The notion was just too spectacular for it to be reality. Yet, here it was, right before her eyes. She should have learned a thing or two from all the opera rumors—if her Maestro was the Phantom, then who is to say that there are no hidden pools below? Hell, who is to say there is not a secret Angel of Music who whispers notes into the ears of musicians and singers before each performance?
A black gondola was tied to a post on the stone ‘port’. Accents of gold lined its edges until they spiraled at the back of its risso, which held in it another lantern. Unlike the one in her Maestro’s arm, its casing was made entirely of multi-colored stained glass. The light from it emitted images of flowers and birds, which spread along the green waters, transforming it into a beautiful display of art.
The Phantom saw her gazing at the sparkling lantern on the gondola and smiled triumphantly. “Do you like what you see? I made it myself!”
“Why, yes.” She traced the curve of the risso with her fingers. The boat seemed to be made of wood and looked to be hand-painted. “What more is there that you cannot possibly do? Do you mean to tell me that you have also built this?” She tapped on the risso, causing the water below the gondola to ripple.
He gave a nod and smiled at her with adoring eyes. Seeing her amusem*nt at his feats felt like winning a gold medal.
“Remind me to hire you if I enter any boating competitions.” She gave him a wink, to which he rolled his eyes dramatically in jest.
The masked man gently placed the woman in his arms in the cabin of the gondola and set the lantern on its floor. The change in position made her wince, and her knee throbbed again. He saw this and immediately grew worried.
“Christine, are you alright? Do you need me t—”
She raised a hand in front of his masked face. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
A minuscule smile crept on his lips. What a self-reliant lady, he deemed with reverence. “Well, alright. But if you drop into the water, you know who is at your disposal.”
She smirked at his comment. “And who will help you if you fall?”
“Nonsense, my dear. I never fall. Ever.”
She poked at his leg, catching him off balance.
“H-hey!”
A devious look consumed her eyes. “Now, is that so?”
His eyebrow raised in reply. She is a feisty one. But then he had an idea. One that would supersede her win.
He turned around to find the post that was tied to the gondola. An impish chuckle gave out from his mouth as he untied the rope. Once done, the only thing that kept Christine from drifting away was his hand. He threw the end of the rope over to her and waited with bated breath.
It took her a few seconds to realize what he had done from the look in his eyes; the masked man was gleaming with rogish contentment as he planned his next steps.
“Maestro, what are you doing?” She asked suspiciously, coming to terms with the idea that this was another one of his silly schemes. When she saw him push the side of the gondola with his shoe, her face soured.
“What in God's name?!”
The nautical vehicle was moving away from the stone pavement on which the Phantom stood.
“Take me back over there at once!”
He let the gondola carry her into the water for a few meters. As it went further away, her voice grew into shouts, “Maestro! Please!”
To her confusion, his voice had a jolly ring to it. “You needn’t worry, Christine! I’ll be joining you!”
The face she gave him looked as if she had seen a pack of wild animals chase after her.
The masked man turned to pace a few meters back and turned again to see his guest’s bewildered expression. Rolling up his sleeves and pushing his cape behind him, he began to run. The heels of his shoes clanked on the solid stone floor as he made his way to the edge of the so-called ‘port’. With nowhere to run except water, he made a grand leap over the body of clouded green in Christine’s direction.
Almost like a nightingale, his flight was swift—landing inside of the floating boat precariously, just mere centimeters away from a descent to the unknown depths beneath. Not perfect, however, as the weight from his person tipped it to the side just slightly, jolting the vehicle enough to splatter some of the murky liquid onto the bottom of his trousers and to Christine’s costume.
“See, I told you. I never fall.”
A bright smile engulfed the little portion of his face that was visible to the world. The woman sitting beside his slightly wet dress shoes stared at him in amazement, retracting her previous doubts about his abilities.
“You are quite the athlete, Monsieur,” she quipped, eyes still wide from the scene that transpired.
“That is a compliment I don’t often hear.” Her Maestro caught her stare and returned it with a friendly smile, to which she bit her lip.
It was a miracle how he had not tipped over the contraption entirely. Quite remarkable indeed, as her elevated travels on his arms made it apparent that although he was a gated recluse, he had not been tardy in keeping shape for all those years he lived under the opera. His arms themselves felt like they bore sand, and not the delicate kind used to coat the bottoms of aquariums.
Blush overpowered her face when she came to realize what she was thinking. It was not very chaste of her to observe a man, her teacher no less, in such a manner. What would her father have said? Had he been alive, he would have deplored them being in the same room together, let alone a boat. And sensibly so. The Phantom, being who he was, would never sit well on his list of suitable candidates for Christine’s affection.
Candidate for my affection? How absurd! Her brain rattled with embarrassment. How could she think of such ideas? Their relationship was already eccentric enough. Busying herself with imprudent thoughts much like this would only be the cause of more irrational feelings.
But then she found herself comparing him to her other friend. The Comte de Chagny was never this blatantly amiable, she thought. After their reunion, he never did anything in her company that proved their friendship. Instead, he was quick to buy her gifts and say overt compliments at the most irrelevant times. Once, she had even caught him hovering his hand over hers before swiping it away when she noticed. Although one could most certainly do all these things and still be considered a friend, Christine had an aching suspicion that the Vicomte sought after much more than just simple day-outs or pleasant afternoon tea parties.
And then there was the Phantom. As unbecoming as his whole Opera Ghost situation, she had found him to be the most reliable person she had come to know. Unlike the Comte, there was no air of greasiness in his presence. Perhaps it was due to his introversion or his artistic prowess—both of which the Comte lacked—or the aura of mystery that fogged him. The masked man was very difficult to read at times, like a book with a portion of its pages strewn from its binding. It felt like she was a sleuth uncovering these pages one by one, pinning them to a board on the wall to trace back what chapter they belonged to. It was this layer of enigma that made him tolerable to her, more so than her other friend.
Speaking of the devil, his words sliced right through her thoughts. “Won’t you pass me that oar, please?”
A long wooden pole with a curved slab at the end lay behind her. She grabbed it and handed it to him.
Taking the lengthy tool from her hands, he stepped to the empty spot behind her and dipped its curved end into the waters below. Gentle bands swirled about from the motion, increasing their span as he began to row.
The gondola glided through dimly lit vaults that seemed to go on forever. Some areas stretched while others were as short as a single city rue. These walls resembled a great maze, such as the Labyrinth that imprisoned the Minotaur—the Greek half-man, half-bull creature whose greatest tragedy was his birth. Not too dissimilar to his fate, the Phantom thought. If he had lived his days in the open eyes of society, he too would become a prisoner to its vile judgment.
Noises of unknown critters scurrying through the pavement on the side of the lagoon filled the air as they traveled. Christine had not said a word after he started steering the boat. Maybe she was afraid, he thought. Any sensible young woman would be if they were to travel through these cavernous ways. He looked at her and found that she was staring off into the dark that lay before them, past the boat and the lantern’s projections. The sight made a part of him feel guilty for bringing her here, for this hell was not a place for angels.
“I apologize for the repugnant view,” he thought out loud.
She turned to him, her face solemn. “There is nothing to apologize for.” Then she paused. A long, dragging pause.
“Except… for what you did.”
The abrupt change in tone was like dropping an anchor. He raised a quizzical brow for a moment until he surmised that she meant the chandelier fiasco. His lips bowed downward. “I’m sorry about that. I was truly not of sound mind when it all happened. I—It felt like there was a fire in my chest, and all the noise lit it even more.”
Another dreaded pause engulfed the space, leaving him to hear the echoes of his voice.
Her hand rested on the rim of the gondola and she rubbed at the gold-foil ornamentation. She did not look at him when she spoke. “But there is no reasonable justification for wanting to kill the innocent.”
Aghast, the Phantom retorted loudly, “What?! I didn’t intend on killing anyone tonight! Why, it was meant only as a scare—to frighten those who were mocking you!”
At this, she turned her head to see his vexed expression. “If it was truly a cheap trick, then why were you so enraged? From what I saw, it was like looking into the eyes of a—”
In that second, Christine could feel herself drown from the thickness of the air. The Phantom halted his rowing and darted his eyes at her. They looked blank, but she recognized the anguish behind that façade.
“Go on. Say it,” he replied grimly. The lightness he had in his words a minute ago faded to oblivion, being replaced by a deep, whisper-like sound. She heard his teeth grit at the last sentence—a cruel amalgamation of sadness and restrained frustration painted his mouth.
“Please.” She felt as if her voice was stolen once again. “Don’t read me the wrong way.”
“How can I not? You were most definitely going to deem me a ‘monster’. Or, if not that, a ‘beast’ or whatever synonym that poses the same truth.”
She became silent.
“I knew it,” his voice broke. He turned away from her worryful face and clutched the oar to his chest.
She heard a small sobbing noise come from his direction and it made her heart knot. To prevent any more damage she quickly reached for his hand. The sudden sensation of their hands meeting made him move away, though Christine refused to let go.
“Maestro, I don’t believe you are any of that.” She rubbed his gloved knuckles. “It’s just… just that you were not the same man I know you as when you were up there.”
No response. He remained with his back turned for a while, his hand becoming limb to her grasp. The one that was free from her graceful touch was wiping away the tears that gathered underneath his mask. Nobody should see his despair, not even her.
Regaining some courage, he adjusted his mask and turned his head to look down at her. She was undeniably tired; her eyes sullen and her face smudged with makeup from all that ensued that night. Neatly curled golden locks were now unrolled and frizzy with a distinctive sheen—a result of their prolonged journey in the moist cellars. As unkempt as most would find her in this moment, he could not agree less.
Her sleepy eyes met his slightly red ones, which made her forehead scrunch a little. He had no idea what to do next; all he wanted was for them to remain like this for eternity, staring at each other in sadness and understanding. For seeing her face was like watching a star twinkle in the great, vast darkness of the universe. And he could not blame the Comte or any other for being awestruck by her light.
To his chagrin, she motioned for him to sit next to her. This confused him. Was she not furious?
He complied and took a seat in the cramped area beside her, placing the oar to the side. Not knowing what else to do, he stayed silent waiting for her to say something, anything, because the sounds of rats and water droplets were starting to take a toll on his conscience, more so than usual. Having been introduced to her voice was like giving candy to a child for the first time, and he simply could not forego hearing it.
Her hand was still holding onto his even after he had sat down and that seemed to be her main interest at the moment. The silk material that made up his glove contained three narrow ridges, which she traced vertically. Then, to his surprise, she removed the garment entirely, revealing a fleshy masculine hand. He lay still, tree-like, observing his confidante take her other hand and use it to wrap around his wrist, lifting it to meet her gaze. She moved his fingers to space them out and then placed her hand in his palm, matching the gesture.
Her hand was smaller in that the bottom of her palm rested just below the middle of his. His one was also warmer and had a slight roughness to it, contrasting with hers which was cold and supple.
Goosebumps ran down his arms once he felt her soft skin against his. He had never touched her without his gloves before. Having them gone in general was like exposing a secret. No one else other than Gérard had seen his hands and he would have preferred it that way. But for her, he would make an exception.
“See. You’re no monster. You and I, we’re nothing but human,” she avowed gingerly.
Warm light from the lantern beside them shone across their faces, enveloping them in an overwhelming orange. Both their eyes were glossy, though more so his. The light had danced around his irises enough that she could tell tears swelled his eyes.
“You’re crying.”
“N-no.”
She sighed and took her hand away from his, using it and her other one to reach past his shoulders in an embrace. “Don’t lie to me.”
This was the second time that she hugged him. But, he just could not comprehend why. Why would anyone hug him, let alone touch him? It was baffling to him that he got this much affection after having shown how maniacal he could be—how maniacal he is.
The tears only grew worse from then on and he tugged onto the hem of her costume, wetting his hands from the lagoon water that drenched it.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
Their proximity was close, much closer than what would be expected of them had they made their trek on the streets above. In any other situation, she would have required a chaperone in his presence to avoid the judgment of passersby. But, she knew of no one who would commit to her situation, for her only friends were both men, one being the very man she ought to have a chaperone for. Regardless, that would have been if her Maestro had not been the Phantom—not a thief blackmailing the manager of the Palais Garnier for twenty-thousand francs a month, nor a mischievous comedienne who falsely gambled with lives other than his own, and certainly not someone who established their primary dwelling underground, accessible only through an elaborate gondola ride over waters which nobody knew the contents of.
Yet, after all this, something about him intrigued her enough to allow him to take her wherever he desired, and to be in a proximity that neither of them would be comfortable with had they met under normal pretenses.
