Author's Note: Hello there! This is my very first contribution to the phandom. Ever since I heard the musical (and watched it) I been dying to write for it. And well here we are this is the recollection of my effort.
Now the story itself is mostly definitely inspired by the song "Beneath the Moonless Sky" from the-sequel-that-shall-not-be-named. The story will not even go around the mess that is Love Never Dies so do not worry my dear reader. What I wanted to do for this story ultimately is make the event from Beneath a Moonless somehow canon in both show and bookverse. I wanted to explore the emotions of Christine and how everything would lead to this event, hence why although this story is wrote in an omnipresent narrator it mostly revolves around Mademoiselle Daae's pov.
I felt the omni would let me move between characters and emotions freely without having to compromise myself to anyone. I hope it's easy to get adjusted to.
Lastly, while this is an E/C piece its also an oddity in many ways. Erik will not appear for quite awhile since these first few chapters deal with Christine finding her way back to him and taking all that rollercoaster of emotions. Its also an odd piece because there is some C/R fluff because Raoul is great character who should not become a drunkard to make a certain other character look better *rolls eyes*. I am committed to remaining the character's faithful to their original conception, I hope I do a proper job in that.
Another thing to keep in mind is that this chapter is quite long because I had originally decided on two separate chapters but felt they fit better in one.
Reviews are greatly appreciated! Any kind of comments and constructive criticism welcomed. So let me know what you think!
Finally I own nothing sadly.
I have rambled quite alot now and the joke's wearing thin.
Let my opera begin!
Christine Daae gazed at the clock, it was already half past four. She shifted in her seat lazily as she looked at the closed mahogany door. She heard the maids scurrying around behind it; she wondered when did maids ever truly rest? It seemed they went from breakfast to dinner to supper quite quickly, and in between they had polishing and sweeping and washing, with so many chores they had no time for anything else really. Maybe perhaps they looked to the night as a time to rest and do their personal chores? Silly Christine, worrying about the life of maids, she thought to herself with a smirk.
She couldn't help herself. She had always had a voracious imagination and an incredible appetite to learn about everyone and everything. It was no wonder her father had been always so fond of entertaining his little girl with dark stories of the North. Myths, legends and dark tales had been a common thing in the Daae household. Her favorites, however, had all been fairytales. She had the loved the kind with princesses, with princes, with witches and goblins and magic curses. Her favorite had always been Little Lotte who had let her mind wander. As a child, Christine, always mused she was Little Lotte, after all they both shared a wandering mind and a curious heart. Her father, in a chuckle, always agreed.
"My Christine, so unafraid and yearning, why, you could be a maiden in a story!" he said once in the warmth of their living room while he had read to her Little Lotte for the thousandth time.
"You really think so, Father?" she asked passionately as her childish frame stood up from where she usually sat. Father would always sit in his armchair and Christine right next to him on the great red rug. This was their favorite spot, where she would sit to hear him read stories and of course where he would often play his violin. Sometimes they would have guests or friends come over to listen to Gustave Daae play or just hear his famous stories of the cold North, but Christine always kept her spot. She was angered when anyone tried to take her place on the rug. She once stuck her tongue out at one of Papa's guests' daughter in effort to taunt her and make her sit somewhere that was not her rug.
Her father disciplined her for it but also laughed, for he knew him being her only parent and companion had made Christine a jealous child. He seldom thought of correcting the behavior, for after his wife's passing, he, too, had become lonely and sought the company of his daughter. She reminded him of his dear wife in spirit and in laughter.
Gustave Daae had always had a few friends, while his music made him popular his eccentricity made him an outcast. He did not mind so much when his wife had been alive, she was been the only thing steady in his life, his rock. When she died, however, and he had plundered into depression, many of his last few friends faded into the oblivion. The only person who remained and did not leave had been Christine. Sure she had been only a child but somehow only she understood. He was alone but he had her. They had each other and for Gustave that was enough. She was his best friend and he was hers. Never did caring, loving father Gustave suspect what a devastating effect his death would have on his only daughter. For in that room, that night when he read her Little Lotte for the thousandth time only happy thoughts were in his heart and he never spared a thought about what the far away future would bring. That he only saw his lively daughter beaming because of the great compliment he had bestowed on her.
"A maiden, Father? Like Gerda who faces the Queen of Snow? Or like the woman who is turned into a duck?" she said with a half pout.
"Oh Christine, you always need to be so poignant and assured!" he replied in smiles and laughter. "I meant I can see you in a story. Oh yes. Christine the heroine of her own story!" he said rather triumphantly. Christine sniggered.
"Oh father, yes! I would love to be a heroine of a story like Little Lotte!" Christine said cheerfully.
"Little Lotte who led her mind wander…"he said in a sing-song voice.
"Little Lotte thought: Am I fonder of dolls…" Christine echoed as if the words were imprinted on her heart.
"Or of goblins or shoes?" her father said in a silly ghoulish tone.
Christine giggled and then her face went solemn as the next line came from her mouth. "No - what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."
"The angel of music sings songs in my head," her father repeated.
"The Angel of music," she breathed while she turned to the warmth of the fire. "Is there really such a thing, Father?" she asked.
Gustave's eyes widen for it was not like Christine to question the magic or reality of fairytales. "Of course there is such a thing!" he said eagerly, "why would such a thing not exist?"
"I don't know," Christine replied with sadness and as she faced her father. He saw traces of disbelief on her face.
"Have you gotten too old for fairytales, Mademoiselle?" he said in a proper manner but with his usual whimsical tone.
The silly expression on his face has gotten a laugh from her sad little face. It was always funny to see Father trying to act like a proper gentleman, even in his best clothes, even in his fanciest concert clothing; he was still a goofball and her father; her closest friend.
"No! One is never too old for fairytales!" she said heartily.
"Says who, Mademoiselle?" he asked inquisitively.
"Says you, Monsieur!" she laughed as she jumped into his arms.
They both chuckled merrily as his father almost fell from his old armchair.
As they settled down and Christine adjusted herself on his lap, her father inquired more from his child.
"Then why, Christine, do you question whether the Angel of Music truly exists?"
"Well, I… They…The girls at school….They said no such thing can exist! They even said the story of The White Duck is a lie because women can't turn into ducks!" Christine replied all at once.
"Well, well," her father said while scratching his small beard, "if they say so then it must be true."
Christine's face fell and before she could protest, he spoke again. "However, I must say I wouldn't want to say that directly to the Witch's face! For she'd turn them into ducks or even worst toads!"
Christine laughed so heartily and loudly that tears were streaming from her eyes. At once the sadness in her face had faded and her Father was glad.
"I just… I just pictured Clara and Marie as toads! They would look so queer, wouldn't they? I mean Marie's blonde curls on a toad's head, it's too hilarious, Father!" she said laughing still.
"Well serves her right for spreading such blatant lies. Magic is real, Christine, it lives in all of us," her father said. "Women can turn into ducks, you see, because wicked witches do exist. Evil in this world exists and so does good, right?"
Christine nodded as his Father's face got more serious. "Evil and good, Christine, it's really all one in the same. I know this might not be the thing they tell you in school, but good is relative, and so is evil."
"There are good people who do bad things and bad people who do good things, do you understand? But at the end it's all the same: people! People who make good choices, people who make bad choices, people who make choices really. And sometimes people choose not to believe in things they consider childish-"
"Like magic?" her voice inquired.
"Yes like magic," her Father said in a nod and smirk, "But magic is real, Christine, don't ever doubt it."
"But how, Father? What are some things that are 'magic'?" she asked.
Her Father saw she was looking for something tangible to grasp on to, it made him both sad and proud. He knew his daughter was growing up and now as she grew older she would question things more and think more logically than before. The whimsical Gustave Daae would have to think of more creative ways to keep his daughter young at heart and keep her imaginative mind untainted by the gloomy reality of the world.
"Like the sun rising in the east," he said softly.
"The sun?" she sounded unsure, "the sun always rises, Father."
"But isn't it equally wonderful? Should we not praise its miracle and beauty? When the sun touches the sky and darkness fades away. When the sky has tints of lavender and blue, when the orange streaks paint through the sky like a ribbon of hope, isn't that magic?" he asked his daughter.
Christine's brows met and she thought hard.
"I do love the morning," she said.
"But think of it, Christine," her Father said eagerly.
She closed her eyes and let her mind show her the morning; the perfect morning. She pictured everything whole without missing a detail, the dew on the leaves, the birds with their songs, the lavender of the sky turning into a clear blue, the sweet smell of freshly baked bread, the hope and cheer in people's voices because of the promise of today, father in the kitchen making her favorite toast and eggs. She thought and saw, and then she understood. "It is magic," she said almost in a sigh.
Her father smiled.
"Father, go on!" Christine pleaded, "what else is magic?"
"Hm, what else? What else is not magic, Christine? The singing of the birds, the first bite of a piece of cake, the sound of an orchestra tuning, music…"
Her daughter twisted on his lap in excitement. "Oh, music! Music is magic! I feel it. All the time, when I sing it, Father, when I listen to it, it is magic always. It is the most wonderful magic in the world!" she exclaimed at once.
Her Father once more smiled at her daughter's love of music. She was indeed his child for he felt exactly the same way, except, of course, that while Christine felt magic when she sang, he felt magic when he played. Nevertheless, music was magic.
"What else, Father? What else could be magic?" she asked, "I can see no greater magic than music."
Her father raised one eyebrow at his daughter's remark. "Well I can," he said simply to tease her.
"Oh, please tell me," she pleaded.
"Love," he answered.
"Love?" she echoed making a face, "How love?"
"Love is magic, Christine, the love we feel for others is magic," he said in a whisper.
"Like the love I feel for you?" she said as she wrapped her small arms around him.
"Yes and no," he said hugging her back.
"This love I speak of is a special love. Like the love I feel for your Mother," he told his daughter.
Christine noticed he had said "feel" instead of "felt". She was of an age where she understood once people were gone from this Earth, they were truly gone. So she did not comprehend why his Father would refer to his Mother in the present knowing that she was long gone. But before she could say anything of the matter, her Father spoke once more.
"You see, I feel this love for your Mother because this kind of love never really fades away. I will always love your Mother. Always. I will probably stop in my death when I'm with her again," he said all this with a sad smile.
"This kind of love is a silly thing, you know? It likes to play tricks on you. You may try to deny or pretend it doesn't exist so it doesn't hurt as much. Sometimes it may hide. It may hide in shadows. Sometimes it hides in the corners of our minds and hearts, but it's always there. Love is a silly thing, truly."
Christine stood quiet. Despite how grown up she felt, she could not fully grasp what her Father was trying to say. Her Father chuckled at her daughter's blank stare, "Oh, there I've done it again, I've rambled without tomorrow!"
"Well, someday you might understand, now off to bed!" he said as he gave his daughter a pat on the knee and began to rise from his armchair. His daughter protested.
"But Father, what about the Angel of Music? Is that real, too? Is that magic, too?"
Her Father's sleepy eyes met hers and he nodded, "Yes, it's real. And it is magic, Christine."
Christine smiled so brightly and sweetly her Father's heart stirred.
"And this Angel, this Angel of Music, Father. Suppose it could visit me and teach me to sing?" she said with desperation in her voice.
Her Father was flabbergasted.
"Teach you to sing? Why, child, you have a beautiful voice already!"
"Father, it's not that great. You say this because you are my Father and you wish to encourage me," she groaned.
"Not true!" he replied. He then took his daughter and lifted her up from his lap. He placed her on the ground softly and then knelt close to her.
"Christine, your voice is beautiful because you love music and therefore the music is within you. The magic is within you," he said while pointing at the small place in her chest where her heart was.
"As long as you have music in your heart and soul your voice will reflect that. I can see it in you and so I can hear the beauty in your voice. Others will see that. And one day someone will see that music, your soul's music, and will love you to pieces for it," he said taking her hands into his and kissing them.
Christine's heart soared. "Like a prince?"
Her Father chuckled in amusement. "Why would you want some ugly prince when you have me?"
She giggled and embraced her father. As they held onto each other tightly, she whispered into his ear, "I love you, Papa."
"I love you, too, child," he said with a heavy heart as a sudden thought of leaving his daughter crept into his head. He felt tears begin to well up in his eyes and he had to speak again to make them go away. He parted from his daughter's embrace and held onto her hands once more.
"When I'm in heaven, child," he said holding his daughter with a strange strength, "I will send the Angel of Music to you."
Christine's eyes widen and then sadden, nevertheless he continued.
"May he watch over you and protect you when I cannot," he prayed as he kissed his daughter's forehead.
"Father, no! You will never leave me! No!" Christine protested as tears filled her eyes.
Her Father smiled at her and then kissed her eyes in attempt to make the tears go away.
"No, I will not leave you, ever. I will always be in your heart like music," he said smiling as he once again pointed to her heart.
Christine's fears faded away and were replaced by the warm feeling of love.
"Papa, you are my angel of music," she said as she hugged her father tightly again. This time her father scooped her up, cushioned her in his arms and carried off his little angel of music to bed. And when she slept, Christine had dreamt of the Angel of Music and he had brought gleeful music to her heart.
Some angel of music you sent, Papa, she thought as the memory of that warm, shabby room slowly dissolved. She was, now, back again in the quiet, elegant waiting room of her fiancé Viscount Raoul de Chagny. She instantly reproached herself for thinking so harshly of her Father and the whole Angel of Music affair. She refused to think of her Angel of Music. Him. She pushed him back into her thoughts, where he belonged, where she could keep him locked up forever if she wanted. Forever locked like a secret that should never be spoken, yes that's how he should stay.
She then found her thoughts trailing back to her father and she was pleased how the thought of him had not brought tears to her eyes. Before, the pure thought of her father would put a lump in her throat and would have brought rain to her face.
"But no more", she said suddenly to herself. No more silent tears would her father bring. She would try to forgive and to live, she would try as she had swore to him at his grave. The promise and the trip down memory lane now filled her heart with warmth. Yes, she would remember her father as he was and carry him in her heart. And she would live as he would have of wanted her to live, yes, she would.
The door to the room opened, interrupting her thoughts, and startling her. Yet she did not stir much as a display of proper manners. The soon-to-be title of vicomtessefilled Christine with the burden of behaving well and keeping poise at all times. Although she had always been a clumsy and restless child, she would try to act the part, for Raoul's sake at least. He deserved that and much more.
As Christine turned to face the door, she was relieved to see her visitor had, too, been startled. It was the young housekeeper Emilia. She, then, shyly stepped away from the door as she realized she had frightened Mademoiselle Daae.
"Oh, forgive me, Miss Daae! I only wanted to ask if you'd like more tea," she said as she looked down to her feet.
"Oh, no, don't ever apologize, Emilia!" Christine replied kindly as she rose from her seat. "I was the one who had her head up in the clouds as I usually do. Besides, I don't scare quite easily!"
Emilia's eyes met Christine's and she managed a nervous smile at the soon-to-be Miss De Chagny. "Yes, Mademoiselle!" she beamed at Christine.
Christine returned the smile, she liked Emilia quite a lot, mostly because Emilia liked her. Most of Raoul's housekeepers and maids did not. They did not approve the Viscount's relationship (and now engagement) with the uprising Prima donna, it did not look well that the Patron of the Opera Populaire was involved with the young soprano and much less did it look well after the catastrophe and scandal that she had been involved in. They avoided looking at her and they whispered things behind her back, and it wasn't like they were the only ones. The whole Paris high society was rumors and talk about the nature of Christine's connection to the Opera Populaire's gruesome string of events that taken place six months back.
It was only natural, Christine supposed. After all, she was relatively poor and a woman of the arts who had a dark past behind her, she was not exactly Viscountess material. Nevertheless, her sweet Raoul did not care, he could care less what the whole world thought of his future bride. He only thought of Christine the greatest of things. He also tenderly cared for her and passionately loved her. For this, Christine was eternally grateful.
"Mademoiselle Daae?" a voice interrupted her thoughts.
It was Emilia who had not left the room but rather gestured at the tea table next to Christine.
"More tea, Mademoiselle?" she asked eagerly.
She looked down at the tea table that stood before her. There was a perfect china blue tea set. It was such an intricate and lovely thing. It had sheer pink roses entailing the cup and other exquisite patterns Her tea was probably cold yet she did not mind for she had no intention of drinking it. She had only merely accepted it to please the fretful maid that was Emilia.
"I am fine. Thank you for attentiveness, Emilia," she replied graciously.
Emilia nodded with delight. She liked Miss Daae, she was kind and graceful, all while being strikingly beautiful. She was positive that her appreciation for Miss Daae stemmed from her love of the Opera. Ever since she was a little girl and her mother had taken her to see her first opera, she had fallen irrevocably in love. She had fallen for everything, the costumes, the sets, the music, the songs, the gorgeous prima donnas in their extravagant dresses and flowing long hair. It was like a never ending dream, just like a childhood fairytale only it was real. She would spend most of little her salary in shabby seats for operas. She cared little whether the opera was good or bad, she only wanted to be there. She wanted to disappear for a minute and only exist there in the opera itself.
Somehow Christine Daae reminded her exactly of that sentiment. She had just that feeling to her. She was small yet grand at the same time. Even in the plainness and uptightness of the maroon dress she wore, she looked ever so young and magnificent. Her hair was of a rich brown color and matched her gentle eyes. She had it up, of course, as most women would wear it, yet she remembered how she had worn it down the first times she began coming to Monsieur De Chagny's home. She most likely had worn it down at all times in the opera. Emilia reminisced how beautiful and perfect she had looked in her debut; her rendition of "Think of Me" had moved her to tears. Yet she did not dare share with Christine her admiration for her or opera, in general, in fear she would think of her as nothing more than a silly girl. She wished nothing less but to embarrass herself in front of her.
The once star soprano of the Opera Populaire smiled at her once again and then spoke. "Would you happen to know if Monsieur De Chagny will be home soon?"
"To be honest Miss Daae, he should have been back half an hour ago," she answered trying not to sound worried.
"It is very like Raoul to get distracted in other affairs. Don't you agree?" Christine said with a short chuckle.
Emilia grinned at the thought. Lovely Monsieur De Chagny, while very charming and good-natured, was very easily distracted with things. He often came home rambling about the latest political gossip or who he had encountered on his way home. He was a sweet man but rather absent minded at times. A bit more or less like his bride-to-be, Emilia supposed.
"I suppose it is my fault for my inviting myself to supper!" Christine joked while she sat back in the cushioned sofa.
"Oh, no don't you ever think that, Mademoiselle! We are very pleased to have you. I am pleased to have you. And Monsieur De Chagny was very pleased to know you were coming!" Emilia argued
Christine smiled and nodded, "Raoul is always very eager to see me. He is so kind and gentle to me. I am grateful."
Emilia beamed. "And you should be. He loves you to bits! He is completely devoted to you, Mlle. And if I may…"
Emilia quieted down as if she were waiting for an approval to continue, this amused Christine.
"You may," she said trying to sound as polite as possible when all she really wanted was to laugh at the fact she had been asked for permission to speak.
"Thank you, Miss Daae," Emilia said gratefully, "and if I may, I have never seen a man so devoted to a woman. Oh Miss Daae, how he loves you so. He only speaks of you, the highest words and praises, of course, and he only thinks of you. Why the other night he went to the opera at the Nouveau Theatre and he recounted to me how it made him miss you terribly. He is the sweetest! Frankly I cannot imagine another man capable of loving you as much as the Viscount does."
I can, her mind echoed suddenly. Christine became angered at the thought that had occurred to her. How dare she compare that man, that thing (as Raoul had said), to her fiancé and how dare she place them side by side? They were not the same! Not one bit! And anyhow she had chosen Raoul, she loved Raoul. The thought of him, her pretend angel of music who had deceived her, made her heart heavy. She could not afford to spare him a thought or passing prayer. She simply could not.
"Miss Daae?" Emilia said interrupting her stream of conscious.
"Oh, yes?" Christine said trying to regain her thoughts.
"Oh, you looked flustered. Did I say something wrong?" Emilia asked worriedly.
"No, you did not, dear Emilia. I am afraid I thought of wrong things, though," she replied duly.
Before Emilia could reply the doorbell rang.
"Monsieur De Chagny!" Emilia said in glee, "I'll tell him you're here! He'll be delighted to see you!"
Christine sighed once Emilia was out the door. She tried to fix herself before she saw Raoul. She did not wish to burden him with any thoughts possible unhappiness in her heart. The unhappiness and angst was gone, the past was gone. They were just days away from their marriage, it was only joy that should fill her heart and yet…
Before her thoughts could wonder to dark places, he arrived and only light filled the room. A light that pierced the loneliness of her heart, that was only, of course, Raoul, only he could do such a thing.
She saw him at once; his handsome face, his kind blue eyes, he ever so beautiful in his brown suit (was it new?), he was perfection all around. She suddenly felt unworthy and clumsy, yet as he said her name and flew straight to her, she forgot all those thoughts of inadequacy. The pair of strong arms embraced her and she felt safe and warm all over. The feeling of comfort, that feeling of profound safeness, is what she loved most about Raoul. She then realized her feet could not touch the ground and the embrace was getting tighter.
"Raoul," she breathed in laughter, "put me down!"
When he realized how high he had Christine in the air, he, too, laughed. "Forgive me, my love," he said placing her gently on the floor.
"I get careless and too childishly happy when I see you," he said placing a hand on Christine's cheek. Her heart soared at the touch and she responded with a sweetest smile she could muster.
Christine then noticed Emilia was still in the same room. Upon being discovered, Emilia shyly excused herself and said she needed to make sure the bread was baked. Once the housekeeper left the room, Raoul chuckled and then explained to Christine that the bread was baked each morning therefore making Emilia a terrible liar.
"Oh, she's a romantic at heart, Christine, she can't help it," Raoul said with a smile on his lips.
Christine agreed with his remark and added that she thought of Emilia of a good heart and recollected to him how she had praised Raoul's love for her.
"That's very kind of her! She perhaps exaggerates me, I believe," he said with an unusual boyish shyness.
"Oh, Raoul don't be silly! You are quite the most affectionate and extraordinary individual," Christine praised.
"You really believe so?" he asked.
"I know so," Christine responded.
His eyes met hers and she knew at once what they said. She got close to him, so close his scent filled her. And then before she could say a word, he kissed her lips. The kiss was tender and gentle, she felt dizzy and at bliss at the same time. How kisses could create such conflicting emotions she could not understand (such conflicting ones indeed). Yet she did not question it either. As their embrace ended, Raoul breathed an "I love you" and her heart swelled up with happiness.
"Here, these are for you," Raoul said presenting Christine with a dozen roses. She had been in such a love spell with him that she had not noticed the bouquet of roses he had been carrying around. They were fresh and still smelled of spring but they were pink. A bright summery pink. While she appreciated the pink roses she preferred red, yet such details were mundane and meant nothing next to Raoul's grandiose flower gesture.
"They're beautiful! Thank you!," Christine said happily as she took the huge bouquet into her hands. Raoul smiled at his fiancé's reaction and then proceeded to the bar. He popped open a bottle of champagne and poured it into two glasses.
"You will never know who I encountered on my way home," Raoul began.
Christine sniggered as she remembered how Emilia and her had mused about Raoul's easy distractions to people and places.
"Monsieur Boyer, of course! Do you remember him, Christine?" Raoul continued.
"No, I do not really," she said trying to recollect the man's name and face.
"Well, I didn't really expect you to remember him! We met a while ago, two months ago in passing actually. I remember introducing him to you but you were distracted. Your mind seemed somewhere else, but then again your mind always seems somewhere else, my love," he said in half a smile, half a laugh.
Raoul seemed in such a giddy mood to Christine. While he was always been her ray of sunshine, today his mood seem particularly more upbeat than usual. As he approached her with two glasses of champagne, she couldn't help question the entirety of the situation.
"What are we celebrating, Raoul?" Christine asked curiously as she took the glass from him.
"Our engagement, of course! Our wedding, I could also suppose! But it is our freedom. Today we celebrate our freedom, Christine," he said as he toasted Christine's glass
"Our freedom? Raoul, I do not comprehend."
"Our freedom, my love. The past is dead now. The ghost of memories which have haunted our love is dead," he said breathlessly. "The Opera Populaire has burned down."
