Author's Note: This is my first fanfic and I suppose this idea has been played with many times on the site, but I wanted to experiment with it myself and see what happened (this, obviously!) Anyway, it'd be great to get a couple of reviews hint hint!
For some strange reason, the story loaded in poetry format the first time I put this up, even though I made sure that I'd checked it would appear in story format. So that's why I'm trying it again (a month on)
Check out Demons by Wandering Child by the way, easily the best E/C fic I've ever read………….
Discaimer: Sadly, none of the characters or places from Phantom of the Opera are mine, they all belong to ALW an Gaston Leroux.
The Beginning
'Christine,
Christine!'
The voice which called to her echoed strangely
through the Opera House, lingering in corners and penetrating
walls.
A young girl paused and raised her tear stained face to the
candlelight, which revealed a pale complexion broken by a flush of
pink colour on her cheeks. She crouched on the floor of the modest
stone chapel, shivering with cold and physical exhaustion. On her
face she wore a peculiar expression. Was it fear?
She seemed to
hesitate, then whispered quietly, 'Father?' Her voice
shook, yet as she spoke, her eyes widened as a thought appeared to
form in her head.
Drawing her night gown around her small frame,
the little girl slowly raised
herself to her feet, searching in
the darkness for a face that she might put to the mysterious,
entrancing voice.
'Angel?' she whispered, barely audible this
time. The half of her face that was illuminated by the candlelight
showed bewilderment and a trace of disbelief.
Could it be the
Angel her father had promised her? Had her Angel of Music found her
at last? She had pleaded countless times to her father on his death
since her arrival at the Opera Populaire, often crying out loud for
the protector she had been promised. But none came. For hours on end
she would lie in her bed in the ballet dormitories, silent and
resigned to living the life she longed to escape yet for which she
knew she was destined. When sleep finally took her, she dreamed
fitfully of her father, finding herself wrapped in his embrace,
swaddled by his protective presence, only to find
that he was no
longer her beloved father, but a black shadow which spoke her name
and turned from a protective presence to a fiercely possessive one.
On such occasions, she would wake shaking, drenched in sweat and
terrified.
Nights were hell.
Then, as she began to make friends
and draw comfort from her strict but warm hearted ballet teacher, Mme
Giry, the tragic little girl learned to dwell on the past less and
gradually started to move on with her life.
But she did not forget
her father, or his promise.
And now, as she dared fathom the
possibility that her Angel of Music had
found her at last, the
magical voice sang to her once again, enthralling her
with its
commanding masculine power.
'I am your Angel of Music...'
Her
Angel of Music.
'Come to your Angel of Music...' the voice
beckoned.
'Mon Ange,' she breathed. Fresh tears sprung to her
eyes; tears of joy. And she realised; there would be no pain any
more. Her blessed Angel of Music
had come to her at last! Her
brown curls cascaded over her slight shoulders, framing her soft
young face as she followed the beautiful voice, wide eyed,
out of
the cold stone chapel and through the shadowy corridors of the
Opera
House to her bedside, where she collapsed, physically and
emotionally
exhausted onto her bed. And there, under the soft
moonlight that filtered
through her small window, the Dark Angel
sang to her softly, strange,
haunting melodies which floated
through her mind and filled her head with
beautiful visions and
entrancing illusions. And when she finally succumbed
to sleep, the
melodies remained inside her head, comforting and caressing
her.
Night enveloped her.
In the shadows, the black silhouette watched
over her sleeping figure. The
child would sleep tonight. Yet she
had much to learn, and he had much that
he could teach her, if she
would consent to be his pupil. Her voice had
showed true promise,
for there had been many times that he had heard her
sing alone,
unaware of any other presence. But he had remained hidden in the
shadows, watching and listening.
As the shape stirred, the outline
of half a white mask materialised from the
darkness, revealing
half a dark face. Outside, a silver star gleamed, shimmering against
the black heavens.
An Angel in Hell.
With a swirl of a cloak
the black figure was gone, and little Christine Daae
slept
peacefully for the first time in since the death of her first
beloved
Angel.
