Christine's Tutor (A Phantom of the Opera Prequel)

II (Phantom)

1859

By some, a fleeting silhouette was seen in Paris, sticking to the walls of the buildings he passed as if he was himself a shadow. He ran frantically, eluding every man and woman who happened to be on the streets at that late hour. While he hoped he wouldn't be seen, he tried to assure himself that he need not fear the eyes of others, thinking that whoever happens spot him will dismiss him as being but an apparition.

He reached a small shop that looked to be a coffeehouse. He heard noises coming from inside- chatter, laughter, shouting. His world began to spin. In frenzied paranoia, he fled, and, after arriving at an impressive rectangular-shaped building, scampered onto the side-street adjacent to it. He stumbled over something as he ran. He heaved forward, regained his footing, and looked with mad eyes behind him.

There lay the cover of a manhole, slightly out of place. He cast his gaze in all directions before lunging for it.

He dragged the cover aside, exposing the manhole. He eased himself down into it, flailing his legs around until they found the ladder. He clung to it, and climbed down.

He reached the bottom. He tested the ground out with one foot before detaching himself from the ladder, then, finding it made of firm brick, let himself down.

As he scanned his surroundings, he found that it was utterly dark where he now was, with no light to be seen in any direction; but he was already accustomed to such darkness. Having been stuck in the night of the streets above for so long, his eyes were adjusted to the pitch black.

He made his way through the tunnels as if it they were part of a labyrinth. He didn't know where he was going; still, he turned and kept going by instinct.

He turned at yet another corner, and a dim beam of light up ahead was revealed to him. It was coming down from a vent some ways ahead. He picked up his pace and went over to investigate it. He tilted his head up and looked straight through it.

Looking through the bars, he recognized a ceiling and glimpsed part of a crystal chandelier. It seemed to him that the vent led to the inside of some building. Arbitrarily, he jumped up for the bars, and latched onto them with his hands. Hanging there, he jerked his body several times. To his satisfaction, the bars were loosened somewhat. He jerked his body several more times, and in doing so, managed to shift them apart, creating a gap in between them. He pulled himself up through the gap, bringing himself onto the polished tile floor of the building.

Soft moonlight was filtering in through the glass windows high up toward the circular roof of the building. It resonated within the crystal chandelier, irradiating it in a beautiful silver-white color. The crystals glittered and reflected prisms onto the crimson walls surrounding the chandelier.

He gazed up at it in awe. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a large golden shimmer. He turned his eyes in that direction, to a small pit in the floor below the stage. He tiptoed over to it. His eyes shone.

In the back of the orchestra pit was an organ.

This was his kingdom.

He boisterously jumped down into the pit and dashed to the splendid instrument, and took a seat in front of it. He splayed his fingers out over the keys, and began to play.

As soon as he began to play, the building was enlivened and animated. It was no longer just a building; it was a theatre, an opera-house. No, it was more than that. It was a kingdom of night, it was a kingdom of darkness, it was his kingdom of music.

Music wrapped and coiled around everything, coming up through the pit and caressing the seats in the audience, dancing on the stage, where a music box, somehow triggered by the music, began to play. He lost himself in the vibrations, the sounds.

~

August 12th, 1880.

On the morrow, two hours past the fall of dusk, a dark figure stalked the streets, unseen. He stopped at the post office on the corner of the street, six blocks away from the opera house. He entered, and a bell chimed. The woman on post was sleeping at her desk, and was not woken by the bell. Without making a sound, he approached the post office boxes behind her. He pulled out a key from his black vest pocket, inserted it into the lock of one box, and twisted. The box was opened, and from it he retrieved a letter. He was unsurprised as he held it out in front of him. He softly repeated the name written in the corner of its face. "Christine Daae."

He tucked both the key and the letter into his vest. When he turned around, the light of a candle caught his face, illuminating his white half-mask in an amber hue, and lighting up his blue irises. He fled from the office, coming out and onto the street. His feet made little sound as he drifted along the side, avoiding the streetlamps.

He came upon a manhole in one of the side-streets bordering the opera house. He removed the cover and lowered himself into it. He pulled the cover back into place before descending the ladder.

Upon reaching the bottom, he planted his feet onto the ground. It was dark, but he could see the unlit torches lining the walls of the corridor. He took the one closest to him and struck it against the wall, lighting it. His world was brought to life at once. To him, it was a grandiose work of architecture. Resplendent pearl-white stone closed in around him, interrupted by barred vents at evenly spaced intervals, and his footsteps echoed eerily against the black brick path underneath him as he passed through.

He arrived at the end of the path, which was terminated by a river of murky green water. There, waiting for him, was a gondola. He secured himself into it, took up a long paddle, and rowed himself down the river.

The water lapped against a bank of damp, yet solid, soil at the other end of the river. Upon reaching it, he thrust the gondola forward, stranding it onto the body of land.

He stepped out from the gondola and made his way up the bank, where a long, broad flight of granite stairs led up to a splendorous plateau. Laid out atop it were lit golden candelabras, statues of various metals, opera props, and mirrors draped with carpets and curtains. In the center of all this was a small organ, a desk covered with red velvet, and an ornate bed. In addition, the walls were covered by exquisite tapestries and drapes, and music staff papers were scattered about.

He bounded straight for the desk. He sat down forcefully, and opened Christine's letter. His eyes flitted across her writing while he read some parts aloud. "I have no vocal experience, though I dearly wish and hope to be able to sing, so that I can sing for myself, others, and the Angel of Music." Upon reaching the end of her letter, he sat still for a moment, intensely staring past it. Then, all at once, he quickly took out a sheet of paper, picked up his quill, and began to write, wasting no time. His hand moved vigorously.

He put his quill down and carefully slipped the letter into an envelope which he promptly addressed to Christine. After tucking the envelope into his vest pocket, he stood up abruptly, sending his chair screeching backwards. He flung his arm up to cover himself with his cape, and when he let it fall down again, his face was no longer his own; rather, it was the face of a young man with but a scar stretching vertically across the right side of his face. 'Christine, your voice will be mine!' he shouted in a different voice, bolting off and leaping into his gondola.

~