marlowemuses | Heir of the Palais Garnier

Entry tags:

Heir of the Palais Garnier

One of the wealthy patrons of the opera was in the mirror room.

Laurent stood just outside, watching him through a pane of glass. His lair was dark, and the mirror room was bright, blindingly bright, and getting brighter by the minute. It made it very easy to watch without being seen, as did all the clever inventions of the phantom.

It was the handsome, nosy patron of the opera. This did not surprise Laurent. He was, after all, remarkably nosy, and remarkably persistent. If any of the opera patrons was going to end up in one of the phantom's traps, it could reasonably have been predicted that it would be this one.

He knew, not from experience, but from explanation, that the interior of the mirror room would be getting uncomfortably warm now. Enough to make a man squirm, or shed clothing.

Laurent had been watching for several minutes, ever since one of the alarms had rung to inform him that one of the pressure plates had been activated in one of the traps. There were many traps, and each one had a wire connected to a bell that would ring if it were activated. The pressure plate activated the trap and began a constant ringing of the respective bell. Laurent reached up and disconnected the wire.

This wealthy patron of the opera was a ghost hunter. Laurent had encountered them before. Most of them he simply ignored as not worth his time. This one intrigued Laurent, though he knew it was only because the patron was young, and handsome, with a healthy, well-formed body that looked more suited to a stage hand than a young heir. Most of the patrons Laurent had seen were fat, pale, cosseted things. This one was golden.

It would be getting hot now, inside the mirror room. Dizzyingly hot. Dry heat, despite the watery subterranean lair. The phantom had been most pleased about that, when he'd shown Laurent how it worked. Dry heat, wicking the moisture from the air, meant that the glass would never fog. He could watch every moment.

Laurent laid his palm against the outside wall of the room. It was pleasantly warm against his hand.

He'd encountered this patron more than once. He thought, though he was not certain, that this patron had seen him more than once. Each time, Laurent had been masked, and they'd been at a distance.

Once, Laurent had been in his box. He'd been in the shadows, impossible to see from the lower seats and difficult to see from the stage. There were the other boxes, but they never really paid attention. They were all glitter and gold, dressed to draw attention, and interested in others like them. But once, Laurent had looked out across to the far side of the boxes, and he had seen a young man, this young man, staring at him. Or, at least, staring at the shadows of his box. Laurent wasn't sure whether he could be seen, dressed in dark red with a death's head mask. He had slipped through his secret door, and away.

He'd seen the young man frequently after that. He was often at the opera house. He seemed to have open access to the place at any hour of the day or night.

Once, Laurent had been watching the rehearsal. He'd seen the young man on the stage. That had intrigued him, and he'd slipped closer, wanting to know if he was audience or performer, or merely being given a tour of the workings. Laurent had been as silent as ever up in the riggings, but this young man had looked up. Laurent had been all in white, with a beautiful, androgynous white mask with gold-painted features. The sailcloth then hung from the riggings ought to have hidden him in folds of white and ivory, and the young man could only have been gazing thoughtfully into space, but Laurent felt as though the young man saw him and saw through him.

There had been more than one close call in a corridor. Laurent had made note of the trap doors and secret passages that the young man had found and solved. It was deeply perplexing. It was concerning.

It would end here.

The glass walls and floor of the mirror room would be scalding to the touch now, though Laurent expected the young man would have better sense than to touch them. At least until he collapsed. The outside wall was uncomfortably warm against Laurent's palm.

The air inside the room, he had been told, would now be gaspingly hot. The young man would likely be feeling some degree of dizziness now, perhaps severe. He might soon lose balance or consciousness. Or he might stay conscious as the room became an oven, as it began to cook him, then to sear and burn, and eventually to char the skin and bones until nothing was left but ash.

The phantom had informed him that he would likely have to replace a few of the panes, after the room was activated. A few of them were always damaged in the process. He had said it with a touch of glee that made Laurent's skin crawl.

The young man would be in agony now. He would understand, now, that this room was meant to kill him. He would understand that all his stubbornness and folly and pride had led him to this.

He would be gone.

Laurent yanked the lever that deactivated the room. All of the traps could be deactivated or solved, if you were fast enough and could spot how the puzzle worked. But they also usually had failsafes on the outside. Christine, the phantom had explained, once got trapped inside this one.

The room went dark. It would still be hot inside, as the trapped air spilled out to warm Laurent's cold lair, but it had stopped heating.

Laurent stared into the dark cell, though he could see nothing. He realized, belatedly, that the mirror room was now darker than his lair, and therefore he was the one who could be seen through the viewing pane. He stepped quickly to one side, though the young man inside could not possibly have seen anything but a mask and a cloak.

It occurred to Laurent that he now had a logistical problem. A scorch mark was easy to tidy away. A young man was not. The mirror room had two doors. One of them opened, one-way, from an underground passageway that branched into the Parisian catacombs. Laurent came through there, occasionally, if he was in a hurry. The other door opened into the heart of Laurent's lair, for his own ease of access, or for the entry of those few allies the phantom might ever have been willing to spare.

It wasn't too late. He could still reactivate the room and dispose of the intruder. But something in Laurent balked at that. He was not certain whether the problem was that the young man was innocent--and he was, as far as Laurent knew, as far as he had heard from the rumors and gossip around the opera house--or that the young man was appealing.

And Laurent was so terribly lonely.

Loneliness had never been a problem before. It was a permanent state. It was a fact of his existence.

And yet, as he began to realize that the young man could not be saved without him being able to catch a glimpse, at least, of Laurent's domain, Laurent began to wonder whether he might just keep this intruder.

The young man had, after all, been very determined to find his way here. He could just stay.

Laurent paced, considering how to handle the situation. The young man was larger, physically. Significantly more muscular. Laurent had wiry strength, but he expected that if it were to come to a physical altercation, he would lose.

There was a firearm buried in a cabinet drawer. Laurent could fetch it, and hold it upon the young man, to make sure that his commands were followed. But there was something distinctly vulnerable about that. It betrayed fear. And, if the young man were to get a hold of it, the situation would quickly reverse. Laurent wouldn't be able to operate doors or traps while keeping a gun trained on the young man. It was too inconvenient an advantage.

Which was why Laurent was bare-handed when he opened the door to the mirror room. There was a knife in his boot that he was accustomed to using. If the young man attacked, Laurent could kill him with it.

Standing outside of the mirror room, Laurent waited. He was dressed severely, in a dark blue tunic, a black cloak, and black trousers and boots. His hood was up, and his face was covered by a plain golden mask. Of Laurent himself, nothing was visible but his mask-shadowed blue eyes, some stray strands of blond hair, and the pale, sunless skin of his throat and hands.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Laurent returned after an hour. It was as long as he could stand, fearing that Gansey had escaped, or that he might need something, and also simply missing Gansey more than he could bear.

His heart softened at the sight of Gansey curled up asleep like that. He looked handsome and vulnerable, the most precious thing Laurent had ever seen. He knew in that moment that he'd give everything he had to keep Gansey. His lair, his books, the opera house. Anything.

Picking up one of his books, Laurent curled up in a chair opposite to read. He left plenty of space between them, not wanting Gansey to feel crowded, and only glanced over occasionally. It was easier to focus when he could keep an eye on Gansey. When he knew that Gansey was safe, and close by.

It was the best sleep he had gotten in months.

Not perfect, no, but between the exhaust of nearly being killed in the mirror room and then actual physical labor digging out the tunnel, paired with a hot meal and wine? Bodily and mentally, Gansey was exhausted. So he slept for quite some time, quietly, chest rising and falling gently as he did.

When he did wake, it was a slow process. Turning, stretching out, eyelids fluttering as his mind began to churn once more. There was no telling if it was day or night, no sign of yellow sunlight or pale moonlight to let his mind register the time.

Blinking, Gansey sat up. When he saw the Phantom sitting not far away he offered an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. Got a bit tired."

"I don't mind," Laurent said, because he didn't. The contentment of being near Gansey and knowing that his precious new companion was safe was more than enough for Laurent. His days were ordinarily quiet and slow, and there were no urgent priorities that he needed to handle. Attending to his beautiful young man was by far the most important thing on his to-do list. "If you're hungry, we can eat."

Sitting up, Gansey stretched his arms over his head and then rested his forearms on his knees. For a moment, he merely studied his ghost. There was nothing about the man that was expected. He didn't revel in blood, didn't run off to torture the singers, didn't even murder Gansey after he'd fallen into his trap. He cooked and read books.

"I'm all right," Gansey smiled. "Still content from earlier." Clasping his hands together, he leveled with his captor.

"Right now, I would very much like it if we could talk."

Laurent tensed. His experience interacting with people had been limited, but he knew perfectly well that we need to talk tended to be not a good thing. Gansey was altogether too rational, too calm and collected, and it made Laurent feel as though there was some information he didn't have, as though this was a trap about to spring. He was supposed to have the upper hand. Gansey was supposed to be his captive.

He set his book aside, tense and suspicious.

"Talk about what?"

Gansey remained calm when the Phantom grew tense.

"About you."

He had asked question after question and had received little in the way of answers. Only small things. There was still so much he didn't understand but desperately wanted to.

"I'd like to know about you. What you are. Who you are, why you're here. You've been very good about avoiding my inquiries so far." Now, however, Gansey was getting stubborn about it. There was no way he could simply read and enjoy meals when there was a mystery begging to be unfolded right under his nose.

"And," he said, "I... would like to know if there's anything I can do to convince you to return me."

"No," Laurent said, getting to his feet. "And no. I'm a ghost. I'm nothing. And you are mine."

His hands trembled slightly, unnerved by the inquiry. He was terrified of his past being revealed, dreading that it would somehow lead his uncle to him and that he would never manage to escape again.

He led the way from the room. "Come along. We'll gt something to eat."

Gansey rubbed his hands over his face. Was he to only be met with walls and darkness? The Phantom didn't even want to entertain any sort of discussion. He wanted to lay back on the chase and stare up at the ceiling dramatically, revel in the anguish of a mystery eluding his grasp.

But he stood. He still didn't want to chance the Phantom throwing him back in the mirror room because of disobedience. Following along, while he obeyed, he couldn't stop asking questions.

"How can I be yours," he asked, "if I don't even know you? I'm not an object. I can only be yours if I give myself to you." And that he could not do when all he knew was that the Phantom was a mystery.

Reaching out, he brushed his fingers against things as they walked. Anything within passing.

"I could give myself to a man. Not a ghost."

Laurent was perplexed by the topic. He yearned for the idea of someone giving himself, out of love, but knew he could never have that. He was tainted. Unnatural.

"You're my prisoner," Laurent said, by way of changing the subject. He was only half paying attention to Gansey, but when he saw Gansey's fingers reach for a hand trap, Laurent grabbed for him, pushing his hand away. His eyes were wide, chest fluttering with alarm at the thought of Gansey being damaged. "Don't," he warned. "It'll cut your hand off."

When the Phantom grabbed him, Gansey made a startled noise, but allowed his hand to be pushed without any kind of fight. His heart was pounding from the possibility of almost losing a hand.

"That would be," he said sadly, "a fitting punishment for an insolent prisoner, don't you think?" There was only so much he could do to reach out. If he was a prisoner, it was for the best that he started being treated like one, outside of being kept from his home. Otherwise, the ache in his heart every time he was rebuffed would only continue to get stronger.

"No," Laurent said, horrified at the thought. He let go of Gansey and took a step back, turning away again. "I won't hurt you." It wasn't a promise, it was a statement of truth. Laurent wasn't cruel. He wanted to protect the people under his care, those in the opera house and below it, and he wanted to protect Gansey most of all. He would not allow Gansey to be hurt.

"This place is dangerous," Laurent warned him, continuing along the way into the kitchen. "Be careful."

Gansey nodded enough thought the Phantom wasn't looking at him.

He had gotten the feeling that the Phantom wouldn't hurt him, but he didn't want to assume. Now he was given the promise. It only created more questions. Questions that would plague him endlessly.

"Will you at least tell me ... insignificant things?" Gansey finally asked, wanting so very much to reach out to touch the Phantom. "Your favorite color? Your favorite book? Do you prefer dogs or cats?"

"Cats," Laurent said, soft and hesitant, unsure about his answer. "I don't understand why you're interested. None of that matters."

He put the kettle on to boil, filling a pretty porcelain teapot with leaves and taking out a little box of pastries. Arranging them prettily on a plate, he set the plate in the center of the table. It was easier to focus on the tea than on his prisoner. His complicated, beautiful, fascinating prisoner.

"Don't you understand," Laurent said, interrupting, "that I can't let you go? Even if you promised never to tell, you might return, armed. You might bring others. You might return and die in the mirror room while I wasn't here to stop it."

You might mention that the Ghost was alive, a blond-haired beauty, among your wealthy circles, and the rumor might reach my uncle.

"I wouldn't," he said, softly, but he knew that the Phantom had a point. Trusting was difficult. Gansey could give his word and then turn on it just as easily. There were many men that would.

"But... I do understand."

The plate was beautiful. Gansey traced his fingers along the edge, admiring the setup.

"What I don't understand is why you don't just kill me. Do you keep every man that stumbles down here as prisoner? It would be easier, for you. To be rid of me."

"No one ever has before," Laurent said, honestly, and then realized that wasn't quite true. The phantom had told him stories about it. "Not in the past few years, anyway."

He set out cups for them both, along with sugar and a little container of milk.

"I don't want to kill you," he said, sinking into his chair and staring into his empty cup. "You don't deserve to die."

When the cup was placed in front of him, Gansey wrapped his fingers around it. It was cool to the touch.

So the Phantom didn't want to kill him. He didn't think Gansey deserved to die. Somehow, that helped him come to terms with his standards of the Phantom. He had been right. Despite the stories, the Phantom was not an indiscriminate killer. Else Gansey would have been dead from the start.

"Is there a way we can compromise?" he asked, studying his own cup. "I can't... I need to be outside. I need sunlight. Else, I'll surely die of depression."

Laurent hesitated. He caught the tip of his tongue briefly between his teeth, because something did immediately come to mind. "Maybe," he said, and poured the tea.

It would be a risk. He'd have to trust Gansey, and take him out of the lair. And if Gansey betrayed him and ran, he'd have to... what? Kill him?

But if he tried, it would make Gansey happy. Laurent wanted to see him smile.

Gansey's smile was dazzling. A maybe wasn't a no. It was half way to a yes. There was no way he could survive without the hope of bathing out in the sun, or feeling a warm spring breeze. In fact, he still very much disliked the idea of being a prisoner, but that was something they could work on.

Pressing the cup to his lips, he quietly enjoyed his tea, delighting in the taste. It felt nice to have a cup of tea after a nice rest.

As he sipped, another thought came upon him.

"So... am I to be used for manual labor, then?" Had the blocked passageway only been the beginning?

Laurent nodded, more willing to answer questions now. Gansey had been entirely cooperative, and he was beginning to feel more like a companion than a prisoner. "As long as you're here, since I can't let you go. There are many things that need to be done, but I've been incapable of doing them by myself. Some of it requires strength, some of it requires a second person. It will be things like clearing the tunnel. The rest of the time we'll spend as you've seen. Reading, cooking, sleeping. If I have to leave the lair for anything, I will have to lock you in Christine's room."

The name was out before he realized his mistake, and then Laurent tensed, eyes widening very slightly with alarm.

"Christine's room..."

He echoed the Phantom's words, thoughtfully, studying the rim of his cup. Perhaps that was why he felt so uneasy in that room. Christine. They had all heard stories about Christine.

"That was the woman you loved, wasn't it?" He could only assume the Phantom had kept the room the same because he wanted the memory of her. Even if it was difficult to fathom that this young man was at least... what? Sixty?

Questions, questions, questions.

"I'm sorry. That's a rude question." He took a sip of his tea.

Laurent hesitated, tense. His hands tightened around his cup.

It hadn't been him. He didn't love Christine, never would have. He wouldn't have built a cage for someone he loved.

The question threatened his identity. He'd built his entire life around the lie that he was and had always been the ghost of the opera house. And yet, what would it matter if Gansey learned the truth? Surely he could never tell anyone of it. It was one of Laurent's greatest secrets, but he was already keeping Gansey here in protection of lesser secrets.

"I wasn't the one who loved her," he answered, staring into his tea.

"Are you talking about... Vicomte de Chagny?" he asked, glancing up at the Phantom with a bit of wonder. Wasn't that how the story went? She had loved the viscount who was a patron of the Palais Garnier. And they had left, together, a long time ago. Never really telling what happened those times the singer had vanished.

"I don't think that invalidates your feelings. Though I'm not sure I'm terribly fond of the room you kept her in. It's very... stifling." That was putting it delicately. It felt like a pretend room, like a place you might put something pretty. It was why Gansey still couldn't bring himself to really sleep in the bed.

"No," Laurent said, irritated by the misunderstanding, the assumption that the Phantom's actions had been his own. He set his cup down sharply. "That's not what I mean."

He tightened his fists and stared at the edge of the table, hating the thought of being... that. Even though he'd assumed for years that he was. He wasn't the Phantom. He didn't relish that fear and cruelty. He couldn't bear to kill indiscriminately.

"I mean that it wasn't me."

"It wasn't...?"

Gansey looked up, startled. I mean that it wasn't me. That was much more difficult to misunderstand.

Suddenly, the two chairs made sense. The Phantom had not dined with Christine—or perhaps he had, Gansey didn't know—but he had also dined with...

Gansey put his cup down as well, only he did so much more delicately.

"I'm afraid I have too many questions to bear."

Panic rising, Laurent's mind blurred, thoughts dwindling to a single flare of terror. The situation was too much for him, too close to all his secrets, which would put him too close to being caught, trapped, hurt...

He stood fast, walking from the room. Fleeing. But there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. The layout of the lair was open. There weren't many doors, only archways and high ceilings. It wasn't designed for hiding from people.

Laurent's heart was stuttering, breath rapid, head spinning. He was awash with panic.

Unsteady, he wobbled, leaning heavily against a wall just outside of the room. He needed to flee. He didn't know where to go. He hadn't not had an escape from something since he'd arrived here, because he'd always been able to retreat here. But now, within his lair, there was no where to hide.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject