DISCLAIMER: Pretty darn sure I own nothing. Gaston Laroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and other creative/producer types have the rights, I'm so informed.
As the date for Christine Daae's no longer secret wedding to the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny grew nearer, Erik could not help but notice an increasing look of desperation cross his young singer's face.
By itself and described in such terms, this expression denoted nothing especially surprising. After all, hadn't his wayward treasure been desperate ever since that dandy scourge first tempted her heart away from its rightful owner? Away from He, Erik, her guardian and angel? And his dear Christine knew that her Angel was not the mild cherub of legends. He was an Angel of Vengeance, of Dishonor Rebuked. An Angel with the face of a demon and a bony hand ready to entwine his Punjab lasso securely around the handsome sinner's neck.
So hadn't the girl every believable motive for desperation?
Therefore, it was not a mere look of distress that caught Erik's keen eye. So dear and familiar were Christine's features to Erik that he could detect the slightest differences in her varying sad and frightened looks, and the one crossing her face for about a fortnight now portended emotions she had never exhibited before: a bewildered, denying, agitated, and defeated pain. Never before had Erik seen her face painted thus. At least, not externally.
He sat playing his organ as he contemplated his dove's altered state. A spasm of anger suddenly seized him and he hit the keys with a vehement strike, so that they shrilly cried out in protest. A rash wave of his arm pushed his sheet music fluttering across the room as he stood growling over his scattered masterpiece.
He instinctively covered his face, despite the fact his mask was already in place. Erik spat out between his twisted fingers, "What right has she to pretend feeling pain when Erik feels it true?"
He addressed this bitter query to the cracked mirror before him, whose broken shards still teased him with jutting fragments revealing his odd visage. He approached the battered frame with cagey steps, still speaking in a low voice. "Yes, what right has she? What pain can she…." He traced an entranced finger over one glistening shard, imagining it was her soft cheek. "…possibly…." His eyes wandered upward, knowing that at this moment her foot could very well be stepping above him. "….feel?"
She was decidedly too beautiful and too beloved to claim any right to pain. Erik believed in this steadfastly.
"You are loved by two men, my dear," he sneered to the absent girl. "While I, Erik, a genius worthy of holding an entire empire in his heart, has to suffer that worst of all miserable emotions: unrequited love."
His eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched in an awful grimace. "You know nothing of pain until you feel THAT."
And yet how to explain her current air of quiet but severe desperation?
His eyes flew open.
"Very well, Miss Daae." He straightened, calm and dark. He pulled on his cloak. "Let us pursue your pain further. Then we shall see who suffers more: the angel who loves devotedly and without thanks, or the angel who pushes that love away."
And he fled from his lair and headed toward his darling's dressing room.
Christine sat in front of her mirror, unknowing–and it might even be said, uncaring–that she was combing her dark curls with mechanical strokes in front of an uninvited audience. She had become so used to Erik's unseen presence pervading her every movement around the opera house that she seldom thought of it now.
Besides…she would soon be gone, so what did it matter? She would become Madame Raoul de Chagny.
She exhaled a long, tired sigh as she brought the brush down gently, placing it on her vanity. Raoul was so good, so kind. So earnestly in love with her.
No, not in love: obsessed.
Just like Erik.
She tilted her head as she continued gazing into the mirror. She coolly studied her large dark eyes, her long hair, her pale skin.
And she wondered if any of these qualities were worthy of such devotion from two disparate men. And if that was all there was to inspire such devotion.
These were thoughts too heavy for her to fully articulate even to herself; she only knew that something somewhere wasn't quite right, and that neither Erik nor Raoul were completely fair to her when they claimed love . Erik was chasing after a soprano sylph to serenade him in the underground, a pliant Beauty to his poetic Beast. Meanwhile, Raoul sought a picture of innocence, an untarnished damsel in distress first seen on that faraway beach of their shared childhood.
Subconsciously she acknowledged that she, herself, was none of these things.
She lifted her head with a strange pride as she told herself she was not deliberately deceiving either of them.
The person she was deceiving, Christine finally admitted after weeks of agonizing realization and frightened struggle, was she.
Christine had run for shelter to an angel's voice, deceiving herself into believing that what she lacked in life was a father.
She ran to Raoul deceiving herself that what she really lacked was a handsome knight from her childhood.
But neither of them had filled that empty and aching pit inside her that threatened to suffocate her. These men were too hard and demanding in their professions of devotion, their gentle words and sweet yearning belied by that foreign roughness that Christine always instinctively shrank away from in men.
Her father had been different; he had loved her as a father should and she loved him, as a daughter should.
But he was the only man she had ever loved. His was the only masculine touch she could abide.
Christine realized this now.
She was a sweet, well-meaning girl, but not even her most ardent admirer—such as the hunched figure leaning against the other side of the mirror now—could call her a thinker of extraordinary depths. She was a creature of immense emotion, and compensated for her lack of common sense and mental prowess by feeling deeper and more stirring sensations of the soul than the brightest intellectual was often capable.
Therefore, the realization that she loved no man–indeed, might never be able to–did not suddenly arise from a studied meditation of her character. It came after years of confused, displaced emotion, really. Years of denial that, as her wedding date came closer, eventually gave way to the truth.
More accurately, her epiphany came in the form of a person. A person who, fittingly enough, inspired little thought but instead a torrent of emotions.
Christine started at the sharp rap on her dressing room door. "Come in," she called.
Meg Giry never entered a room so much as she flew into it. She was a whirlwind now of thick, golden-red curls and a flushed, round face. Her bright blue eyes accosted Christine's brown ones with that never-failing animation and warm fondness that characterized the young ballet dancer, still dressed in her Spanish peasant garb from rehearsal.
She sank down unceremoniously on a plush velvet chair at Christine's right, dangling her long legs in front of her, staring at the little feet. Her smile was dimpled and brilliant. "Christine, I have scuffed my shoe! Mother will kill me, but do you know what this means? I get new shoes." Her legs dropped quickly to the floor as she launched her upper body forward, clutching her friend happily by the arm. She pinned the soprano with her loving, laughing eyes. "But even new shoes are nothing compared to how wonderful you were in rehearsal. Christine, you're brilliant! But…but you still sound so shy out there!" Her face shone with sweet concern; she reached out cupping her friend's cheek with a small, warm hand. Her voice was still lively and childish, but with an undertone now of almost maternal maturity. "Christine, why are you still so afraid? You know what a tremendous singer you are. Don't be afraid to act so! You should own that stage when you're on it–like when you played in Hannibal!" She shook her head, her rosy lips parted in curiosity as her glittering eyes wandered over her friend's face. Very softly, she asked, "What's happened to all that confidence?"
Christine trembled under Meg's gaze.
"It…it is nothing," she exhaled.
Meg lightly swatted her arm. "Don't lie to me! Believe me, I understand you're in a chaotic mess right now: the wedding, the threat of…him. You know, I've been meaning to speak to you about this for a long time now. Christine, why do you need either of them?"
Christine's head shot up, and she pinned Meg with wide doe eyes. The singer's heart beat loudly against her ribcage at the little Giry's words, watching her lips and hoping –and with such agonizing hope! – that the ballerina's next words might…might….
"You should be an independent woman!" Meg continued.
Christine's shoulders slumped, an imperceptive signal of woeful disappointment. "Oh," she said quietly.
"You love opera with a passion, don't you? Well, you might as well stand by your passion. I'm not saying it's impossible to have a career and marriage both, but your husband has to understand your desires. And he has to be willing to let you 'give yourself to the stage,' if I may borrow a phrase I heard from that silly cow Carlotta. Unfortunately," she leaned back into her seat, blowing a stray lock of sunny hair out of her face, "Not a lot of men are like that, are they?"
"Mm," Christine replied noncommittally.
Meg shook her head, wearing an endearing look of world-weary wisdom on her pretty little face; endearing because it looked so unfitting on that untried, young, fresh, almost beautiful, completely charming and adorable countenance (at least, those were the reasons a member of her current audience found the expression so endearing).
"No. Men are not like that at all. Now, let's look at your situation." She cleared her throat, and proceeded to commence with perfect ease a summation of Christine's love life. From anyone less pert and pure, this would have been endlessly aggravating. But how–Christine asked herself–how can anyone object to this fairy, listing your life's faults like a pedantic little schoolgirl reciting a lesson for the benefit of her younger sister? "Now, there's Raoul–a gentleman, a perfect gentleman. But he is a gentleman: and you know what that means. Luckily he isn't like those others who think they can amuse themselves with us and get their wildness out of the way before marrying some gentlewoman–he's far too nice to make up that sort. But on the other hand, he wants to make a gentlewoman out of you–and how many gentlewomen do you suppose perform arias wearing a barbarian queen's scanty costume? Much less holding a plaster-cast head of a slaughtered king in their hands, as you so charmingly did in Hannibal. Not many gentlewomen would, thank you." She patted Christine's wrist. Her voice quieted. "You do see what I'm saying, don't you, Christine?"
Christine only nodded. "Gentlemen don't like singers as wives," she said dully.
"Not generally," Meg assented. "But then there's the phantom!" She announced without the usual fright. "Ooh! That's another story altogether!"
Christine's sad dark eyes gleamed with soft amusement as Meg prattled on about the opera ghost as if he were merely another suitor. "What about the phantom, Meg dear?"
The strawberry blonde's face twisted in mock dread. "He's the exact opposite: from how you've described him to me, he loves singing–singing and singing and singing!"
Christine's shoulders slumped again. "So you think…you think I would be better off with him?"
Meg's eyes widened. "Heavens, no! I'd much rather see you with Raoul! Now, I do feel bad disparaging the poor Erik, seeing as how my mother has cared for him so long. And he really has been dealt a rather bad hand in life, hasn't he? But honestly, Christine: the man is a murderer. And…volatile in general. Yes, he appreciates your singing–but on his terms, under his commands! And…quite frankly…what else does he appreciate about you?" She scrutinized Christine carefully. "Dear, I don't want to upset you with such a question…but let's say you sang just like any other ballet rat…you know, like me," she giggled self-deprecatingly. She soon turned serious, meekly inquiring, "Do you really think he'd 'love' you half as much as he does now?"
Christine's expression did not change. "That…question…has occurred to me before…."
Meg nodded her head understandingly. "Yes, I rather thought it did. Maybe…maybe that's why you've been so quiet and strange these past few weeks." She ran an affectionate hand through her friend's beautiful hair.
Christine shivered at the touch, closing her eyes as she wondered how anyone could be so wrong in interpreting her unease thus.
Meg's hand flew away from her hair with the thoughtless speed of a bluebird. "So, you have two prize pigs in front of you," she said, and only her guileless accent kept those words from sounding tart. "And who would I choose? Neither!" she exclaimed happily, throwing out her hands. "As for myself, I'm never going to marry," she said with affected haughtiness.
Christine looked at her quickly and carefully. "Won't you?" She asked in a far off voice. Noting the negative shake of her friend's fair head, she asked slowly, "Why?"
Meg looked at her as if she had said something very silly indeed. "Haven't you been listening to me? I care just as much about dancing as you do about singing! And I would like to continue dancing on my terms–yes, yes, Erik gave me my start as a gift to Mother, but I've more than made my own way since. No man is ever going to take away–or give me–my right to dance and dance until all my shoes are scuffed and my feet are bloody stumps." She straightened her shoulders and there was a sharp, childlike dignity in the large eyes that now gazed directly at Christine. "You'll see."
She was a brilliant and striking image just then, vivacity and wildness mixed with control and self-possessed determination.
In a second Christine had thrown herself into Meg's arms.
Christine knelt on the floor as she buried her face in the dancer's bright curls. "Oh…oh…." Christine murmured breathlessly. "Oh, Meg, you are every emotion I've ever felt on stage: you are…you are…you are happiness, fire, excitement, giddiness…oh, Meg!" And she started sobbing.
Meg was stunned for a moment, left speechless at her friend's sudden vehemence. There was a husky note of violence in the singer's voice that Meg had never heard before, and the arms that clasped her were urgent and…different from embraces Meg thought were fitting between two such friends as they.
Still, Christine was under an awful lot of pressure lately.
Meg's equanimity returned, and she patted her friend's head with a patronizing but still pure-hearted affection. "There, there, Christine," she said. "I'm not so wonderful as that. You're the majestic one, you know. Ooh, I loved hearing you sing that second big aria tonight! Tell me, how long did it take you to learn that one?"
"No, no, no!" Christine practically growled, wrenching herself away from Meg's hair and staring at her brutally. The brunette's wild eyes were red with tears, her cheeks flushed. Her expression was just this side of…monstrous. "You…you don't understand what I've said! You don't understand!" She emphasized her words by pounding the floor with clenched fist, and then buried her stormy face in her trembling hands.
Meg involuntarily recoiled.
"I…I always knew you were a passionate person, Christine, even though you always act so shy. But I'm afraid I don't understand. Why are you so passionate now? What did you just say to me?"
Christine regarded the kind blue eyes. There was no hint of suspicion in them, only innocence and earnestness. Meg's legs were curled beneath her from where she sat perched on the chair, her little chest heaving up and down rhythmically.
"I love you," Christine stated simply.
She felt a sort of chilly release at speaking those words aloud.
But now she waited silently for a reply. She watched that curious face carefully.
The girl nodded her head, shrugging.
"Yes," Meg said matter-of-factly. "I love you, too."
Christine shook her head helplessly. "No…no…I love you."
Meg grinned in light confusion. "Christine, you're getting hysterical over nothing! I tell you, I love you, too!"
Christine groaned. "Meg…."
She felt a shimmer of frightened hope as Meg's eyes suddenly widened hearing her name called in a voice so hoarse with fire. Her rosebud mouth made a perfect oh. "Ah, I see! I see it now. You're trying…you're trying to tell me you love me as more than a friend…."
Christine's sad smile was tinged with tears as her eyes glowed with thanks that Meg now understood the truth. "Yes!" She laughed.
"…. You love me as a sister!"
Meg's eyes squinted happily to think she had figured everything out so nicely. Christine's smile only faded.
Meg merrily sank to her own knees beside Christine, kissing her on the cheek. "Dear, knuckle-headed Christine: of course I know that! And rest assured I love you that way, too! Dear me, I didn't think we'd ever have to actually say that to each other–I've been thinking of you that way for years! I suppose I just assumed you returned my affection without having to tell me. But if that's the way you feel, I don't mind saying it, either: Christine Daae, you're my sister and I'm yours! And I love you just as much as if we were related by blood!" She giggled and kissed Christine again. "There! Feel better?"
Christine stared at her morosely. "Is that really all you feel for me?" She muttered.
For a brief instant, Meg looked curious and confounded again. Then she laughed once more. "Oh, Christine, I'm not used to you joking with me like this! All right, all right: I love you more than if we were related by blood! After all, you can't choose who you're related to, can you? So I cherish you better as a sister of the heart than I would a sister of the flesh." She stood up gracefully, and twirled about as she stretched. She yawned. "Well! We've both certainly said our peace today, haven't we? And I feel as if I were about to drop dead on this very spot, I really do. I'm tired. I'd better run off before I fall asleep on my dear sister's dressing room floor." She glanced at her friend, who stared numbly before her. Meg lightly touched her shoulder. "You all right, Christine? Are you thinking about what I said?"
Christine nodded. When she spoke, she sounded as if she were calling from her own grave. "Yes. I am."
"Good. I'll hope you think carefully about what you choose: a gentleman, a madman, or yourself." She kissed her friend for the third time, not seeing how Christine closed her eyes as the lips touched the crown of her head. "Good night, my dearest friend–my sweet sister. Goodnight."
Just as speedily as she had flown into Christine's room, the bird flew out.
Christine sat still on the floor, staring at nothing. Her mind's eye saw a pretty doll come to life with red-gold, riotous curls flying about her as she danced. The doll eventually danced away from her, far, far away from Christine's phantom arms.
She'd gambled everything, and hadn't even the pleasure of losing frankly–Meg remained ignorant of the pain the dancer unknowingly inflicted upon her heart's sister.
In a way, that was Christine's one consolation: she'd never have to contemplate the pity and horror on Meg's face that Erik must see on her own face every day.
But at least Erik had the satisfaction of Christine knowing exactly where they stood with each other, and he knew she carried the guilt and brunt of his unwanted love on her shoulders.
She stood wearily, having suddenly aged from sorrow. She felt an old woman, though her jaded emotional state only lent her face a darker, more languid beauty.
Her future lay before her in crystallized clarity. She was resigned now. She would become Madame Raoul de Chagny.
She glanced once more at the mirror. Then she left the room, after turning out the gas.
Erik had seen all that Meg had not. He walked back to his boat as one recovering from anesthesia, his steps heavy and deliberate. New, haunting ideas hummed mercilessly in his stunned brain. As he slowly oared the boat toward his lair, that parting glance Christine had given the mirror–to him–returned to the Phantom's memory.
That look had said one thing only.
"I know, Erik. I know."
Wheee, writing Victorian melodrama is even more fun than I thought it would be! I just wanted to mess with Erik a tad. Y'know, keep him on his toes, as it were. (You can't see me, but I'm stroking my handlebar mustache right now and laughing an evil, throaty laugh. Oh, the plot bunnies, how they howl at night! What music they make!) Anyhow, lemme know how you like– or strongly dislike –this little oddity in the reviews! Thanks for reading!