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Damn them! Damn them both!
Rage coursed through him, tingling in his extremities and fueling his speed. He climbed through the flies, dodging wood beams and scenery suspended in storage. The space was not well lit, but he knew it well from years of practice.
Below him Il Muto had resumed, Miss Daaé in her rightful place as the lead… Her voice soared through the flies, and its soft colours surrounded him. He slowed, allowing himself to savour it for a second. The music lept and danced as she sang, a liveliness present in the song that had not been there when the previous prima donna had sung. It grew, skipping lightly across his skin, caressing his cheek. He closed his eyes and sighed, a soft, delicate sound.
The song soothed his aching mind, relieving pain and tension—until the echoes came. Echoes of another song, another voice intertwined with hers…
He snarled and tore himself away, pushing forwards. Her voice was soiled now. Tainted by the colours of that insufferable boy, swirling, intertwining themselves around hers. That was supposed to be his voice, his music, not the vicomte’s.
How dare he? The vicomte had not been there with her, teaching her, encouraging her, helping her come into her own. The vicomte had not been there to comfort her when she had not made the progress she wished. The vicomte had not been the one she had whispered her fears and dreams to in the darkness. No.
But then… None of it had been for him, either. It had all been for her angel. A story. A lie. He was no angel. She knew that now. She had seen his face. Why did she have to look? She wasn’t supposed to look! She would never return to him now.
He climbed higher, to the arbour where the chandelier’s counterweights kept it suspended high above the crowd. Such fools. All of them. Sitting there to be entertained as though none of this mattered. None of them cared. They only came to gawk at their neighbours and be gawked at in turn. Such shallow frivolities. What a joke this art had become! They ought to pay attention. They were missing the point! They were missing the beauty! The talent! The emotion!
He would show them. He would show them all!
He seized the chain holding the chandelier, his fingers gripping it tightly. With precision, he began to work at the fastenings that held it in place, each twist and pull bringing him closer to his goal. Without them, the chandelier would become a lethal projectile, tearing through the flies and crashing down onto the stage below. They wanted a show? He would give them one they’d never forget. Something to actually gawk at for once. It would serve them right.
Metal groaned, and wood creaked ominously, echoing through the grand opera hall. It wouldn’t be long now.
With limber dexterity, he sprang up and climbed the chain to the chandelier beneath. The chandelier shook, its crystalline ornaments emitting a soft, jangling noise, as he came to stand upon one of its long iron arms. He began to rock back and forth, each movement amplifying the groaning and jangling of the chandelier. A woman screamed.
“Up there! Look! There’s a man!”
Murmurs began to ripple through the crowd as others heeded her words. Others began to stand. Still, the opera went on. A few people got up and began to make their way towards the exits. They were too late. He swung forwards once more, and, with a resounding snap, the fastenings finally gave away. Splinters of wood flew as the chandelier finally broke free of its holding. His stomach swooped as it began its deadly descent, swinging wildly. He'd done it!
Below him, patrons began to flee in alarm, their panicked footsteps and distressed shouts morphing into a chaotic symphony. He laughed, the sound echoing through the room. The sound of shattering glass joined in, followed by a crescendo of screams.
The singing on stage had stopped now. Pity. He would have liked to have had its accompaniment right up until the very end. His grip began to slip as he dropped, the chandelier picking up speed as it fell.
Another snap, and the speed increased significantly, the chandelier hurtling downwards in cut time. A deafening roar filled his ears like the applause after a show.
He looked out at the stage. Christine was frozen, her gaze fixed on the oncoming chandelier. She stood directly in its path. Why didn’t she move? Did she wish to die? Foolish girl.
Christine’s eyes went wide, and she stepped forwards. With a final, violent swing of the chandelier, his hands were wrenched from the chain, his surroundings blurring into a dizzying whirlwind. He fell.
A tumult of shattering glass, splintering wood, and screeching metal assaulted his mind in bright red, brassy yellow, and sharp green. Its tang was cloying on his tongue, like blood. The acrid smell of coal, of burning clogged his nose. He folded, crumpling like punctured bellows. Bright pain shot through his chest, his legs, tearing away all coherent thought.
When he recovered his senses, Christine stood in front of him, her face an expression of complete and utter horror.
“You’re hurt…”
Rage burned through him, igniting in his blood. He laughed, a wet gurgling sound that dragged through his chest in a way that it should not have. It descended into coughing, and he spat, blood staining the ground beneath him. “You…you don’t care about me ,” he rasped. “You never d—.” His voice cracked, and he took another ragged breath.
She stepped back, her eyes widening. “What have you done? ”
“It was all for you,” he hissed.
She shook her head and covered her face. “No… No. I do not believe it. There has to be another reason. It can’t all be because of me. I haven’t done anything!”
He tried to drag himself up. Pain shot up his spine. He ignored it and pulled again. The pain surged, patches filling his vision. He gasped, inducing another fit of coughing. Each cough tore through him, scraping his throat, carving him out. All other sensations faded. He tried to press a hand to his throat, but he could not lift his arm. The burning smell was growing worse as well, and it did nothing to help the already foul air.
“Christine!” That horrid aristocratic voice tore through his thoughts and boiled his veins.
Christine turned to the audience.
“You betrayed me. I gave you everything!”
“Raoul?” Christine took a step towards the edge of the stage, her neck craning.
No. He would not get the last word. That infernal vicomte ruined everything! He snarled. “I shared my music with you! And still you shun me.”
Christine turned back to him. “What do you mean?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“You know exactly what I mean! I was on the rooftop the whole time. You replaced me with that idiotic child vicomte, and now you pretend to care that I might be hurt.” He scoffed, but it came out as a torn wheeze.
She stepped closer, her lips drawing into a frown. “No, I— You don’t understand—”
“Christine, get back!” The vicomte’s voice drew closer, its tone more panicked. Good. The vicomte couldn’t fix this. It was just as much his fault as it was hers.
“Now you know what your actions have wrought! How does it feel? To be the catalyst of so much destruction and devastation?”
“I’m not—”
“You saw my face! But…you…you returned my mask. You spoke of my music, to the boy. Of me. You told him of how I taught you to soar. I had hoped…” He took a breath. It was getting harder. His head spun, and his chest ached.
“I loved you. I saw something in you. I thought you could see it too. I thought you understood! But no! You chose that vile boy instead. You only wanted fame and renown. You used me. You do not truly care about the music. So, now I take it all back. Everything I gave to you. Everything you tossed back in my face.” He sneered, his muscles trembling.
Her once brilliant eyes had gone dull and glassy, and tears trickled down her cheeks. “I…” She turned, something catching her eye. She lifted a hand, reaching out.
He turned, following her movements. Pain shot down his back again, and his muscles spasmed, sending him into another coughing fit.
Once he had recovered, he looked up to see what she had retrieved. A fractured porcelain mask sat in her hand. His mask. His face. Cool air kissed his cheek. His skin prickled. Horror grew in the pit of his stomach. Everyone could see his face. The entire opera—all of Paris!
Footsteps rang through the wings. “I’m coming, Christine! Get away from him!”
But Christine remained in place. She looked up at him and held out the mask.
He fought to lift his arm, but it wouldn’t move. Why wouldn’t it move? He grit his teeth and began to lift the other one. It moved. It was so heavy. He needed the mask. Tremors ran through his hand and fingers as he lifted it towards her.
The footsteps pounded, growing ever closer. Yet she stayed. She stayed with him. She held out his mask. He had to reach it!
“Christine!” The vicomte burst out from the wings and stopped, his chest heaving with breath.
Christine turned back to look at her foolish boy.
The vicomte ran to her and clasped her free hand. “Are you hurt? Did he…?”
Christine shook her head.
He was losing her all over again. No. He couldn’t. Not again. He strained, fighting the pain that threatened to overwhelm him as he held out his arm. “Ch- Christine… ” he gasped. His hand shook.
She let go of the mask.
It fell, turning in the air, the shattering sound it made as it hit the stage ringing through the entire opera house. White porcelain scattered, as though desperate to get away from the form that it had been forced into by his tired hands so many years before.
When he looked up, Christine was gone.
His movements grew frantic, and he tried to claw his way to the pieces of the mask. His body wouldn’t move. Pain flared up his arm, and it went slack. His head spun, spots swimming before his eyes. He shook his head and fought to hang on.
This was wrong! All wrong! This wasn’t how it was supposed to end! She was supposed to save him! She was going to…to… She was gone. How could she be gone? He was— He couldn’t— His legs. His chest. He was broken… So broken…
What had he done?