Whispered Roses

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, or written material that is mentioned in any of the following stories. Credit goes to Gaston Leroux for the characters, Charles Garnier for the opera house, and various composers, librettists, and authors for any mentioned musical or literary work.

Prologue

This is basically here simply to clarify a few things before the story actually begins. There are so many different versions of PotO floating about that I wanted to make sure that everyone understands the basic concepts underlying Roses.

First of all: in this story, there is no Raoul. He is a very important character, and a valuable one, but I simply wish to focus exclusively on Erik and Christine; they still face plenty of problems without our dear Viscount. Because I intend to concentrate so much upon the Erik-Christine dynamic, writing Raoul would be, I feel, an intrusion.

Secondly: I wish to briefly address my treatment of PotO's protagonists. My Erik is much like Leroux's- perhaps a little less prone to tears and with a slightly more biting wit, but essentially the same. His appearance is entirely book based (but please don't imagine my Erik as looking like Lon Chaney! I love the silent movie version, but my character is very different). And now for my Christine. Christine really is the central character of this story- I plan for most, if not all, chapters to be from Miss Daae's POV. That being said, she is the character that deviates most from the original portrayal. My version of Christine is a tad...saner. She is just as confused, but she handles her issues better than Leroux Christine. I also think that my character is kinder, more understanding, and more intuitive. She's emotionally older, in a nutshell. Her appearance is also different, because I have always been partial to ALW's brunette Christine. Mine still has the blue eyes, however.

Thirdly and Lastly: Though the story is Leroux based, it does not follow the book religiously. It incorporates some ALW, some Kay, and a lot of my own ideas about the characters and their world. I also must give credit to No One Mourns the Wicked, for her wonderful story Two Weeks of Eternity; it is beautifully written, and several of my ideas about Erik were greatly influenced by her portrayal of the character. There are several other authors that likewise inspired me, and you can find them under my Favorite Authors. ; )

And now, may the story begin.

Whispered Roses

A tale whispered in shades of rose,

A fairy tale, dost think?

Recall, from red to gold and black

Not all roses blush pink...

The little girl breathed a sigh of relief as the heavy wooden door creaked shut underneath her cold fingertips, effectively shutting out the frenetic cacophony of the opera house. Letting the sudden, sweet silence fall over her, she turned wide blue eyes to the room that granted her such reprieve. Dust lay thick over every surface, floating in the air in whirls and eddies around her. She was in the opera's chapel, a small and, apparently, little used room. Now, without the constant movement and sound of the opera company swirling around her, she could hear the faint strains of the violin that she feared would always be playing in her mind.

Christine Daae had come to the opera house because her father was dead. He was as dead as dead could be- buried in the ground, a cross marking his final resting place. She had watched the pallbearers lower his simple coffin into that hole, had paled as she imagined the earth swallowing her only family with its wretched, six foot deep mouth. She would never see him again, never hear him play, never feel his calloused fingers in her smooth ones, never, never, never; because he was dead. Dead.

No matter how many times she tried, she simply could not understand. Her mind knew that he was gone- her heart refused to believe. She felt numb, cold- and guilty, for she could not cry for her own father. Tears would not come- her heart held them in. And she prayed almost as much for her own tears as she did for the return of her father; she felt that anything would be preferable to her solitary, dry-eyed misery.

Christine tilted her head to one side, listening to the song playing through her memory. She could clearly remember her father playing this; the way the muscles in his hands moved, the smell of his cologne as she sat with him, watching him play- the memory was as real to her as the little chapel. She remembered his insistence that she sing with him, remembered lifting her voice to twine with the violin...

Her father had wanted her to become a great singer one day, and she had wanted to fulfill his dreams for her. She could remember, distantly, that she had loved to sing. But now her throat closed up if she tried, and her voice would not escape. She had come to the opera house to be a member of the chorus, a small, insignificant face among dozens onstage. She no longer wanted to be a famous diva- her ambitions were buried with her father. She had displayed just enough of her tattered talent to be admitted into the opera's company, and was now a shadow among hundreds of singers, dancers, and backstage workers.

Christine walked to the single, austere pew that sat in the middle of the tiny room. A candle sat upon a rickety table, covered with a moth-eaten cloth. Her footsteps echoed oddly in the stone chamber, her strangled breaths amplified and distorted. The room had no source of light except for a small, circular window along one wall, but that was so covered in grime that only irregular, cold beams illuminated the room enough that Christine could make her way to the pew and sit on its cracked seat. She listened to the haunting violin's song that her memory played for her, mouthing the words silently. The music seemed to fill the small chamber, swelling and diminishing as it was wrought from the strings by her father's skilled hands. Christine swung her feet up onto the pew- determined to enjoy her few moments of solitude. However, she felt something move under her foot and she gave a little cry that caused her imagined music to stop with a discordant wail. Quickly lifting up her foot, Christine saw a large spider, crushed and dying. The spider gave a final shiver and curled into itself. She stared at the spider for a few seconds, and all of a sudden her heart gave up its struggle- it let loose her tears. They came quickly, her small form shaking with the force and depth of her sobs. She felt as though her very soul were being ripped apart, but she also felt relief as the poisonous sorrow flowed out of her. She cried for her father, she cried for her mother, she cried for herself, and she cried for the spider that she had killed with her own carelessness. She curled into herself, much like the spider, and begged for mercy and forgiveness. She knew that it was irrational to be so very upset over the death of a spider, but she also knew that, like her father, the insect did not deserve to die. Christine cried and cried, afraid, and almost wishing, that she would never stop. She began to beg, through her sobs, for someone to hear her pain, to help her, to hold her. She needed someone to understand, to be there for her in a world that had left her empty and cold and alone. Someone- anyone.

Someone heard.

Someone cared, even if only a little.

Someone whispered, "Do not cry, child" into the dark silence of the chapel.

Christine lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with tears and hope. "Hello?" she whispered. "Are you there?"

Silence.

Tears threatened to drown the hope in her eyes. "Please!" she cried. "Please, speak to me. I'll do anything- please!" She searched the shadows for the source of the voice. After many long moments, she heard a sad sigh. "I am here", the voice said.

"Oh," breathed Christine, wiping her eyes. She was so surprised and happy to have her prayer answered that she gave no more thought to the disembodied quality of the voice. She was, after all, a little girl."Oh! You must be an angel, for you have answered my prayer. Please don't go- I need you, angel." Christine instinctively addressed the ceiling- her angel would most obviously speak from above.

There was another sigh- her angel seemed prone to them. "Child," he began, "I am not an angel. I cannot stay- I would only harm you. I should never have spoken." This last part was whispered with so much bitterness that Christine had to say something. "Angel, I beg of you! I need you- how can you harm me? I want you to stay. Please- I would do anything if only you don't leave!"

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Christine held her breath as another expectant silence hung about the dusty chapel. Finally, in a voice smaller and more uncertain than Christine would have ever expected from her celestial being, he asked, "If I promise to stay, will you do the same?" She laughed, delighted. "Is that all? Of course I will stay! I never wish to leave my angel!"

His response this time was immediate, commanding and sarcastic. "I am not an angel, child. I am a demon of the worst sort. A monster from your darkest dreams. Do you still wish me to stay?"

Christine paused, seriously considering. She didn't truly believe that he was a monster, but he insisted that he wasn't an angel. Why then couldn't she see him? Was he a ghost- or something more sinister? Did it really matter? She wanted a friend- a real friend- more than anything. She needed him, angel or not.

Her mind firmly made up, Christine nodded. "Yes, I still want you to stay. I don't believe that you are a demon and a monster, but if you are not an angel...who are you? Do you have a name?"

His voice was back to that uncertain, halting quality. "My...name?"

"Yes...you do have a name, don't you? Since I cannot call you 'angel'."

"My name is Erik" he whispered.

"Erik" she repeated. "My name is Christine." She paused, and looked to the ceiling again. She knew that he wasn't an angel, but it still felt right. "I..." she dropped her eyes. "Thank you."

"You are welcome, angel."