Hello, World! So this is my first fic and it's based on The Phantom Of The Opera. It has stuff from Leroux, Kay, ALW, etc., etc. I am not any of those people and am not trying to take their work or their characters - I mean only to borrow them for the time and then they can run freely making music when I'm done. I am also not French, so if I got the French wrong - I tried...and I'm sorry. Hopefully this isn't dreadful, but we'll see. Feedback and constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated! And lastly, to give you some context: Christine left Erik's lair with Raoul and is due to be married tomorrow. This was my happily ever after, well...as happy as it could be despite what's going to come...and I will (before the appropriate chapter) let you know if it's going to be explicitly violent, sexual, etc. This chapter's pretty sedate, though.
Your obedient friend, and angel,
O.G.
Chapter One
"But Miss Daaé, you look…" the maid's voice trailed off as she hesitated, contemplating her choice of adjective before deciding upon 'absolutely breathtaking'. It was true: Christine was absolutely breathtaking, but standing before the full length mirror in her wedding gown certainly had her feeling quite the opposite. The dress was exquisite, its ivory grace falling delicately over her body, outlining her perfect – albeit miniscule – frame, yet there was something missing. Christine blushed, her ecru pigment taking on an array of pinks and reds.
"Thank you, dear Marguerite."
The maid nodded her head in recognition of the soprano's gratitude. Christine's colour returned to its pale, yet gorgeous tone, and Marguerite continued fussing over her as she stared blankly into the mirror – memories of the face in her dressing room mirror washing over her. Marguerite was barely eighteen, no older than Christine herself, and yet these two young women led such vastly different lives; Christine was due to become the Victomtesse de Changy, and Marguerite, well she was to be her maid for all the years to follow – chasing after her every desire, want, and need. Christine glanced down into the ripples and folds of her elegant gown, her body quivering uncontrollably as the tears formed in her oceanic eyes. Taking only a single blink for the flood gates to open, Christine had suddenly released what seemed like a never-ending stream of salty despair. Falling to her knees, Christine continued to shake as Marguerite wrapped her dainty arms around the troubled beauty – what was the matter?
"Madam, I –," Marguerite started, yet before she could continue, Christine corrected her title through sobs – she was always less than enthralled with the idea of becoming a Vicomtesse, with the thought of superiority.
"Christine, please."
"Yes, Christine, sorry. Nonetheless, what ever could be the matter on such a celebratory eve? After all, tomorrow you are to be wed to the Vicomte, Raoul de Changy – you will be the envy of every girl in Paris, more than you already are with that voice."
Christine buried her face in her hands, mumbling softly about an angel, and Marguerite realised that perhaps her condolences were quite the opposite, instead perhaps the reason behind her misery.
"I just can't, Marguerite!"
"Can't? What do you mean, can't, dear Christine – you of all maidens are the most fitting for such a title. I mean, after all you and the Vicomte have been through together…since childhood at that!"
Upon hearing these words, the reminder that she was Raoul's best friend, fiancée, and soon to be wife, she crumpled even further into this depressive state. Marguerite sensed her madam's apprehensions, wondering if these were just pre-wedding jitters taking their unrelenting toll on the girl. Christine knew, though sure not to tell even Marguerite – despite becoming close with her – that these were more than childish nerves, this was a tsunami of regret. How she wished that she hadn't had been so foolish to take Raoul's hand that cold night in the Phantom's lair. Standing on the shoreline of that wretched lake, gold ring in hand, watching the Phantom's corpse-like head nod consent for her to choose Raoul…Oh, how she prayed she could somehow rewrite history to choose her love again, this time with her heart and passions at interest. Choosing Raoul, though sensible, was the wrong decision for her and this had become gradually more obvious as the days slipped by. Christine wished that her younger self could see the affect her childish fantasy was having. She remembered all those years ago when the boy with sandy blonde hair and piercing blue eyes selflessly threw himself into the chilled ocean to save her scarf – how she became fond of the boy and as they grew, their friendship strengthened. After the move from Sweden to Paris with her father Gustave, Christine often pondered the whereabouts of her Prince Charming – wondering if he remembered her, dreaming of their impossible future. But now it was not impossible, rather imminent, and as she wept she realised that Raoul was not in love with the woman called Christine, but the child so fondly nicknamed, Little Lotte. Once she had loved him, deeply and passionately, yet out of fear and worry – she loved the protection he offered, yet she knew she would rather die than be trapped in this cage of security for her life. She longed for adventure, for wild romance, for excitement, for music, and she knew that in the role of Vicomtesse, she would lose everything she loved. How she wished that her Angel of Music would love her once more.
It was impossible, though. He was dead. The Persian had told her personally. Her Angel of Music had passed. She, herself, had placed the gold ring on his skeletal finger and laid him to rest – to sleep eternally in his coffin.
Upon realising the extent of her distress, Marguerite lifted Christine to her feet and shuffled her behind her dressing screens, where she began undoing the marvellous gown. Once the bodice was carefully unlaced, Christine found she was able to step comfortably out of the contraption and Marguerite slid out from behind the screen to allow some privacy – passing her nightgown only when asked. After silently dressing, Christine dragged herself out from the confines of her divider and shrunk into bed, Marguerite kissing her forehead in reassurance and tucking her in, leaving the room without another word. She waited until she heard the door lock click shut and pulling a match from the top drawer of her bedside table, she lit a single candle – providing enough light to change her clothes, yet again. She slipped over to her extravagant wardrobe – she never liked being so spoilt, she much preferred simplicity and raw love, yet Raoul could not help himself and often splurged in great amounts for his bride-to-be. Searching through the gowns, she finally stumbled across her winter coat her father had blessed her with, although it was plain, she loved it more than any coloured gown for it held the undying love of her Father, Gustave Daaé. Wrapping it around her delicate body and lifting the hood to cover her unruly ringlets, Christine hurried to the window, blowing the candle out with a single exhale on her way, careful not to alert anyone in surrounding rooms to her leaving.
Prying the window open just far enough, she planted one leg on the outer window sill, followed by the other and soon she was completely outside – carefully pushing the window back into place. She gripped the window frame for dear life – while she was only on the second floor of the manor, she was surely 30 feet above the ground and that was a jump she was not willing to risk. Peering to her left and right in hopes of a tree or ideally and unrealistically, a ladder, she noted her betrothed's balcony a mere four metres to her left. The doors were locked and curtains drawn. He was likely drinking with his brother again or already passed out from the excessive intoxication. She continued to scale the window ledge until she would step into thin air. She would need to jump to reach the balcony and if she fell, it could very well mean a premature death for the run-away. Still, death was far more pleasant and welcoming than a life in the arms of Raoul de Changy, after all – she cared for him like a brother, and it was wrong to love your brother. She leant backwards, preparing for her great dive to the railings. This was it. It was now or never and there was no turning back after this leap of faith. She counted anxiously in her head…1…2…3…JUMP! Propelling all of her weight forwards, she felt her hands grip the railings of the Vicomte's balcony subconsciously. Yet soon as she felt the cold metal, it disappeared again as she fell from the balcony. She hit the ground, thankfully not too hard, yet her body was grazed, bruised, cut, and her wrist was aching, enough to make her believe that landing her weight on it had injured it. Nonetheless, she picked herself up from the ground and with tears glistening in her eyes, she began to run…and she ran, and she ran, and she kept running through the night – no moon to be seen in any direction. Her instincts were the only thing guiding her way and as she peered through a dingy alley way she knew she had reached her destination. The pain was worth it.
She gazed up to see a dusted sign.
Entrée Des Artistes
Opéra Garnier
'Stage Door – Opéra Garnier'. She hadn't seen this building in little over a year after the night of Don Juan Triumphant and it was besides the fact that her safe-haven had mysteriously caught fire, curtesy of the Opera Ghost. Christine felt a wave of apprehension flood through her body as she carefully pushed the door open. She knew the corridors and passageways like the palm of her hand and so, in the black of night, slipped through the opera house to find her old dressing room.
Christine Daaé
Don Juan Triumphant
Carefully, she reached down for the handle, pushing the splintering door open with the force of her shoulder. Shrinking into her beloved dressing room, she peered around, the singed lounge and burnt dressing screens catching her attention before staring longingly into the full length mirror where her Angel of Music had visited her in the past. Oh, how she wished her Angel would rejoin her in this moment. Stepping closer to the mirror, she used her left (and uninjured) hand to push the mirror open to uncover a passageway. The very passageway that led her further into her Angel's darkness a year ago, on that very night she shattered his heart and made a terrible decision.
Crawling through the underbelly of the theatre, hoping desperately that her Phantom was alive (despite knowing he was not). Christine grew weary and emotional, just as her body weakened. Surely her Phantom was here, for if he truly was dead – if the body she laid, had in fact, been deceased – she would surely fall into the abyss of insanity and madness, losing herself in the complications of a broken heart.
Christine made her way down the grand staircase to the edge of the Opera Ghost's lair, finding nothing but smashed glass and torn sheet music.
"Christine? Christine." The melodic, albeit eerie voice of her Angel whispered from around her – her body erupting in a series of Goosebumps and shivers. Christine's mouth fell open, dry and unknowing of how to respond. Was that really her Angel or just her memory playing tricks?
"My Angel?" Christine whipped around, her wild locks flicking in every direction. As she turned further, she was met by a pair of golden glowing eyes in the blackness – she could have mistaken them for a cat's if she hadn't of known that they were the eyes she longed to wake up to. Those beautiful, teardrop shaped eyes of her Dark Angel.