Opposing Natures

A/N: This is a story I thought up in one of my slightly more solemn moods… Just a thought that, perhaps, there's more to dear old Carlotta than is portrayed in the story.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. I wish I did, but I don't…

Chapter 1: Happy River

The moon shone down on the narrow street as the woman walked quietly down it. She had never been to this part of Paris. Tears streamed down her face and mingled with the rain. It was as if they had never been; much like the woman herself. That Daaé girl had made sure of that. She wrapped her coat tightly around herself, trying to muffle the sobs she could not suppress. Her skirt stuck oddly out of the bottom. She buried her face into her tatty scarf and trudged further down the grimy cobblestones. Her elegant boots, clicking a rhythm to her song of sorrow. Faces danced before her eyes, faces of deceit that had kept her in a prison. People who made promises only when it profited them.

Other faces stared up at her from the moon-lit, silver pavement, the soft drizzle that fell mixing with dirt to create the expressions of street urchins that had seen too much for their innocence to survive. The rich beading and fashionable fabrics that made up her skirt caught their eyes. She ignored their amazed stares. She had no care for their thoughts. Bitter snickering came from the beautiful creatures of the underworld that glared at her, agony screaming quietly through their eyes. Eyes covered in smudged mascara and a different sort of blackness. Her crying also smudged her mascara and absent-mindedly she wiped it, no doubt making the mess worse. She had long since discarded her elaborate tiara and her hair hung in shambles around her face. A loud sobbing from a dark sidewalk startled the stranger to the district. She looked down at the young girl, rocking gently in her misery as she mourned her future. The woman stopped and stared at the rich, auburn locks that were so like hers. Her presence made the girl look up. She caught a glimpse of a fighting spirit, defeated, then shame. Another woman came up to the girl and helped her to her feet.

"Come now," she began, wiping the victim's tears, "it'll be all right."

She turned and looked at the stranger who still stood and stared.

"Hey, I know you. You're from the…"

The woman turned and covered her face, unable to face the fire in those eyes. She turned, once more, to walk down the street. She walked in a daze, her anguish tormenting her in silence. A young sailor grabbed her arm and she spun around, her coat falling open.

"Hello love," he slurred. He was a little confused by her outfit, very expensive for this side of town. He concluded that she probably had a rich customer. "You looking for some company tonight? I'm willing to pay."

"I do not want your money sir," she replied.

"Hello, what have we here," he said astounded at her accent and the polish with which she spoke. He turned and called to his friends, "Hey lads, we got ourselves an foreign one we have." He turned back to her grinning. The grin faded, she was gone. Picking the perfect moment, she had fled down a nearby alley, managing to escape. The narrow pathway was dark as she ran, laundry hung between the buildings on either side of it. Warm light flooded out of the windows as families sat down to eat a hard-earned meal. The woman envied them their honest lives. To sit down and realise your hard work was wonderful. She used to know the feeling. Now she took it for granted in her dazzling world where it was assumed she would be accepted. She ran with all she had, from the sailor, the feasting families and the hideous humiliation.

The scene around her was a blur as she ran, the alley mixing into a monotonous shade of blues and yellows. She ran, no intended destination, or purpose. She only knew that they would never look for her in this place. She wished she could run away from this world and just disappear into the sorrowful sky. She tripped on her coat and fell hard, back down to earth. No one came to help her to her feet or to wipe away her tears. She was not worth the affection that had been shown to a common whore. She was not the important person she had once believed herself to be. To these people she was nothing. She pushed herself up on her arms and into a sitting position. Rubbing her arm where she had hit the ground, she finally gave in to her emotion and sobbed a violent outpouring to anyone who would listen, her grief finally tearing her soul apart. She dug her nails deep into her arm as anger descended heavily. Biting her lip she tried to control herself. The lie she had lived sinking deeper into her, permeating her very depths. She breathed in short bursts as she began to calm down. She opened her eyes once more, looking down at her arm, a small trickle of blood flowed from the grooves made by her nails. She wiped it away, trying, in a way, to erase some of the hurt inflicted on her. She shifted her eyes further up her arm, moving her hand with them. The long scar up her wrist was a clear reminder to her of her past, her failure. She gently rubbed her fingertips along it, cutting through the little blue veins. Darkness seeped from it, an inescapable darkness. A darkness she had thought she had defeated. A foolish thing to believe she assured herself. She had become the self-obsessed creature everybody knew her to be shortly after. She closed her eyes and dissolved into her abyss. Her sweet perfume drifted up to her in direct contrast to her bitter grief. She tasted the salty tears on her lips and felt their moisture on her cheeks. A discordant symphony screeched in her mind. One sound began to override it: the rhythmic rushing of the river Seine. She opened her eyes, a new idea taking place. The river consoled her, she would not fail, could not fail.

She glanced down the rest of the dark alley toward the powerful sound drifting up to her. Standing up, she floated down towards the bridge. The street moved smoothly under her as she drifted to the chant that had begun, lulling her into compliance. She was startled as the cobbles tilted upward into the slope of the bridge. She looked over the bridge. There was no one in sight, just her and the river. She looked to the side, over the river. She longed to be engulfed by the spirit that surged beneath her feet. She moved toward the stone rail, her only obstacle. She ran her hands over the grooves of masonry. The result of so many years of careful planning and work was now to keep her from her fate. She put an expensive boot onto the platform and pushed herself up. She gazed down into the swirling depths of the Seine, a gnashing blackness, like her mind.

She wondered what the headlines on the morning papers would say. "Prima Donna plunges to her Death in River Seine" or, knowing the highly creative lead journalist of The Mirror, "Guidicelli Takes Leave of Opera Management and Makes New Friend with River Seine." Lifting her arms up on either side of her, she threw her head back and screamed to the heavens,

"They shall have the final song of a dying swan indeed!" it was a desperate attempt at reason for what she was about to do, "It is finished," she said, looking once more into the pooling waters beneath her, "Thank God it is finished." With a heavy sigh she fell forward. The liberating feeling that accompanied her descent calmed her. The feeling of the wind on her face freed her and she fell into a blissful peace.

The temperature of the river should have shocked her, but the freezing water had no impact. Soft voices comforted her. Her senses relaxed their guard, no need to fight. It would soon be over. She felt the river carry her downstream and she knew she would succeed. The last bubbles of her wasted breath evaporated upward and she felt warmth returning to her as blackness shrouded her vision.

Suddenly, she felt a strong grip on her arm. Frightened to her senses, she felt panic consume her. Her chest heaved, craving oxygen. Pain erupted all over as she felt the sharp temperature of the water. She felt the person pull her close and try to pull above the surface. There was nothing more, the blackness descended and she was gone.

He'd been waiting. Although he had a violent dislike for her voice, he couldn't let this be her unfortunate ending. Even she didn't deserve this. He had no idea where the sympathy had suddenly appeared from, but it had and now he waited quietly for her under the bridge. The river gushed passed and he wondered how anyone could do this. It had crossed his own mind several times and yet, he had resisted finding more than enough reason live. He had yet to claim his revenge; that was enough.

After several hours had passed, he had almost convinced himself that she would not come. Then he heard it. Her voice raised to the heavens in agony. Just as he had been told it would. She cried out, but the rushing river muffled her words. He listened harder and his effort was met with an ominous splash. She drifted passed and he threw himself in after her. The current was strong and it carried him quickly downstream. He fought hard to gain control of himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her red skirts move down a slight fall. He pushed with all his effort to reach her. He finally felt her arm in front of him and he reached out and took hold of it. He felt her react as if he had frightened her. He pulled her to himself in fear of losing her, once more, to the violent current. He tried at once to pull her to the surface and allow her to breathe. Alas, her skirts were too heavy, so, instead, he tried to drag her to the bank. It took all the effort he had left. He heaved and pulled with all his might, pushing the water back with his feet. The bank got closer at a maddening pace. Once he finally reached it, he grasped onto the grass and pushed the unconscious prima donna onto the muddy rise. He dug his hands into the soft earth and pulled himself up out of the water. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, he turned her over. Her face was pale and bluish from the cold and lack of oxygen. He pushed down on her chest several times. There was no reaction; she remained unmoving. He pressed his lips to hers and, as it were, breathed life into her cold body. She coughed and expelled water from her lungs. She looked around her in a daze. He quieted her and lifted her in his arms carried her away from the riverside.

Carlotta could not clearly see the man's face, her vision was blurry and she was more focused on her breathing. She tried to ask him his name, but he merely shushed her. She felt him gently lift her and carry her up the embankment. The cold was unbearable, her coat had been lost and her shoulders were bare. He said nothing further, carrying her to… she had no idea, she was to dazed to take in her surroundings. She looked once more at his face, noticing that it was whiter than anything natural. A strange thought came to her, but she dismissed it as silliness. Everybody knew that the Opera Ghost never left his happy little Opéra Populaire, besides, he clearly had no affection for her. Her drowning would, no doubt, have brought a smile to his face. Knowing that he no longer had to waste his time on her would have been a great comfort, it couldn't possibly be him. This was her last thought as she once more drifted into unconsciousness.

Ubaldo Piangi had been frantic with worry since Carlotta had run from the opera. He'd pursued her down the labyrinth of corridors, but she'd disappeared past the main stairwell. She had been lost in a crowd of opera patrons. Angry with himself for losing her, Piangi cursed the elaborate costumes of the opera audience. How else could he lose a fully costumed prima donna? He paced nervously across his dressing room as the inspector questioned him.

"And when did you last see the woman in question?"

"I told you, after the curtain had fallen she rushed to her dressing room in distress! When she emerged, I followed her until the main stairwell!" Piangi said in his own form of distress.

"You said she was wearing her costume?"

"Yes, yes!" he threw his arms in the air with frustration, "We've been through this! She's out there in the dark depths of Paris and in a serious mood of self destruction and all you want to know is what she was wearing!"

"If you'll be calm sir…"

"I am calm! Perfectly calm!" Piangi cut him off. The inspector shook his head and watched the desperate man pace even faster around the room. So quick-tempered these foreigners, He thought to himself, No respect for the process.

"Monsieur Piangi, I cannot help you if you do not answer my questions."

"I am answering your questions!" he turned on the inspector and, before stalking out of the room, yelled, "Repeatedly!" The inspector shook his head once more and jotted something down in his little book.

"Forgive him," began André, "the two are very… close."

"That, monsieur, is not of my concern," the inspector stood to leave and issue instructions to his men, "I have a missing person, a famous one at that, and I cannot do anything if I have no information on the woman."

"I understand Inspector," André began again, "I will do what I can to get information from Monsieur Piangi."

"It would be much appreciated," the inspector finished off before he too left the room.

"This will not do!" Firmin exclaimed. "I can't run an opera when temperamental prima donnas run off to off themselves before even seeing paying patrons! And without even a note about where she was going! Not a word!"

"Oh Firmin, have you not a caring bone in your body?" André said in an exasperated tone, "The woman may have done away with herself and you're worrying about paying patrons and notes… besides, she did see those people you refer to. True, she was a mess and suicidal, but she saw them nonetheless!" With that snooty remark, André left the room. Muttering darkly about people with mood problems, Firmin followed him out, leaving the room empty. Well, as far as he was concerned. The ever-present Erik remained. He smiled under his mask and quietly set a note on the tenor's table. Then, he was gone.

A/N: I hope that grabbed your attention! If it didn't and you are now cursing me for making you so damned bored, I'm sorry… Please R&R, I still love constructive criticism.