I don't know why I wrote this. I just did, I was thirsty for some o.g. kickass Christine, who can blame me? Plus, I feel like I've neglected the Phandom for way too long but hey! now the book has been translated into my native tongue, so I expect I'll be hooked and doomed for life once again soon, when I manage to get my hands on it :/

Please R&R :)

Happiness

So make your siren's call and sing all you want

I will not hear what you have to say

'Cause I need freedom now and I need to know how

To live my life as it's meant to be.

~ The Cave - Mumford & Sons

"Mam'selle Daaé! Mam'selle! Attendez!" the disembodied voices of journalists and critics had haunted her mind, disturbed her slumber for the past days. Now they were some twenty feet behind her. These voices were far more vexing than the ones in her dreams.

She had seen this coming.

She's constantly looking behind her as she scuttles down the great corridor, and at some point, she glances over her shoulder only to see one of the notepad-carrying rapscallions trip and fall, and another over him, and another, and another...

When she reaches her door, she bangs it closed, and double-locks it. She pulls the latch, as well.

Slamming her back against it, and closing her eyes, she breathes.

"Tack och lov*…"

For the first time today, she feels like she can actually, legitimately breathe, away from all the noise and the paranoia and-

And she's suffocating once again.

The silence is alarming. It hangs heavy around her. He's here, she can feel it.

"You might as well show yourself. I know you can't resist a riveting reveal, and having you open your loud mouth abruptly, for the sole purpose of startling me would do the trick, would it not?" Her eyes trail over the mirror, a hard smile adorning her lips. Still, no answer.

"Yes, I was running from them, if that is what you're wondering." She goes on, when-

"For what is the first, and I hope to be, the last time in the history of the universe, do I find the Press' desires to be reflective of my own." His voice has just the right timbre to relieve her tension, and bring joy to her ears. For a moment, she considers letting go and asking him to sing for her. Nevertheless, she is not one to swallow her pride.

"I've told you before, those newspaper pages are not the only thing they press. Their name suggests as such – The Press. But you have never had any issues with pressure, Christine."

"I do, now." she fumes.

"You must sing tonight, my angel. For them, for me-"

"I can't do it."

"Quoi?"

"I can't do it, Erik! I refuse to!" Raise your voice, just a little, not too much, or you'll regret it.

"So you can't sing, all of a sudden?"

"No, I-"

"This was all you wanted a while ago! The stage, all yours, for you to shine on! To shine as Marguerite, making the audience weep, requesting encores on the spot! What happened to your dreams, sweetheart? Your dreams! My dreams! Our dreams!"

"Erik, this has nothing to do with the performance. You- you yourself said that if I sing tonight, I will be binding myself to you, forever."

"Ah, yes, that. I assure you, that was never intended to be perceived in the literal sense-"

"You went as far as to compare it to me accepting a proposal to matrimony."

"Clearly, I was only-"

"You said the prop ring I'll wear during "L' air des Bijoux" will be an unworthy predecessor to yours."

"Oh, woe is me! Are you referring to the ring I gave you and you lost? Twice!"

"Exactly. I refuse to wear it."

"Is it too banal? I never took pride in being a fashionable fellow, but could it be that it's outmoded for you-"

"Erik, no, God…" She buries her face in her hands. Deep breath. "No… " Deep breath. "Forget about the ring. Just..." Ask him. "If I sing tonight, will you ever let me sing again?"

"Why, of course!"

Her eyes gleam, but she knows better.

"For an audience?"

"Oh, I make the best audience, trust me."

"You want me to sing only for you." She realises, her voice passive.

"I won't share you, Christine. I thought I had made myself clear on that..."

Only for him.

Her eyes fall on the tiny altar she has set up on her dressing table - daguerreotypes of her father and Mama, Raoul's letters - some of them missing, others placed strategically so that she won't notice they have been moved, possibly read - still, she is no fool. And flowers, so many flowers - from her audience. Oh, her audience.

"So, what is it going to be?"

No Mama, no Raoul, no more flowers. No more life outside these walls.

"I can't."

"Come again?"

"I can't do it."

"You can't do what? Sing, become my bride, dance the ritournelle? Limpid speech has always annoyed me. So, what is it that you can't do, mon coeur?"

"This." She gestures to her dressing table. "I can't leave it all behind for you."

And here we go again.

"We've been through this before."

"You don't understand-"

"Trust me, my home will grow on you. If deemed necessary, I might even feed you pomegranate seeds." He snickers, but charm will get him nowhere this time.

"Do you honestly think mythology will aid you in getting your way?"

"It was worth the try."

"Leave."

"Not before you provide me with a satisfying answer."

"No."

"I'll wait until you do, then."

"…That was my answer."

Silence.

"Why? You'll love the dark. I know you, you are not one to not appreciate how soothing it gets in the early morning hours."

"No, Erik, the dark will kill me. I will be miserable in it."

He sighs. "The dark offers us sanctuary from all the things we fear, so long as we learn to love the dark itself-"

"Speak for yourself." She knows where this is going. She's heard that allegory a thousand times before.

He goes on as if he didn't even hear her protest. "Bear in mind, it's the sun that blinds men, it's the light that Plato has the prisoners of the cave turn from." he scorns, a little aggravated. Perhaps he heard her, after all.

"You have completely misinterpreted that myth."

"I'd say you have misinterpreted your entire existence. You, like me, were meant for the dark. I've seen you. You don't shrivel in it, you flourish. The dark is peaceful, and quiet, and reassuring. I guarantee you'll love it."

"I was meant for the light, this much I know."

"I respectfully disagree."

"Erik, I was meant for the outside world! A world of joy, and beauty, and blue skies! A world of light! A world with Mama Valerius and Raoul in it! A world of-"

"You have become too big-headed, Christine." What?

"I am loath to confess it, but I knew from the start that this moment would come." And back to his icy posture he goes, his voice a stiff jeer.

"But-"

"And, if I should be completely honest with you, I was almost convinced it were to be completely avoided, considering how benign and devoted you were to your music - our music! - until recently. I see now that that is far from the case. It has gotten to your head, ma chère." Not this game again. She refuses to let him play with her mind the way he has so often done in the past. She has had enough of this.

"Wait-"

"It's a pity, your brain has been poisoned by the venom of fame. A pity, indeed, dearest, most unfortunate - I had big plans for you-"

"Let me speak for heaven's sake!"

He stops, startled, before thundering.

"How dare you raise your voice to your tutor?"

She trembles in what she at first believes to be fear, just as he has commonly inspired her to. But then she realizes; this is not fear. It's rage. Pure, absolute, white-hot rage.

"No, how dare you? How dare you try and convince me that abandoning my entire life is a fair price to pay for your… your services? How dare you deny me my right to being happy? What cruel parody of an angel would ever ask this of a woman he claims to love?"

She thinks she hears him stutter. This state of astonishment on his part doesn't last for more than a millisecond, however, for his booming voice is retorting to her declaration tenfold now.

"Are you truly so foolish as to think-" he is punctuating his words, making them sting, like daggers on her insides "I say, are you so foolish as to think… that Jesus was happy on the cross before his Father's angels' lifted him to the heavens in divine glory? Do you think there are no sacrifices to be made? No price to be paid?" He snaps, growling low in his throat. "Has the populace and this minor exposure to their shallow ideals made you so daft as to turn your back on your art? And, regarding your happiness, you will be happy, my dear. I will give you everything you could possibly crave - there will be light, if you but open the window. Yes, yes, I will install one, somewhere, I promise, although I have to think it out first-"

"Erik-"

"There will be beauty, there will be joy, there will be blue skies. I'll take you out whenever you feel like it, it won't only have to be on Sundays. And your- your mother, you may see her, whenever you wish. Our music will grant you happiness. You will be happy, take my word for it. You will have anything you want so long as you voice your desires - I will make it my life's purpose to make you happy, mon amour."

She casts her gaze over the letters.

"And what about Raoul?"

"That wretched boy! Ah, I should have killed him when I had the chance-"

"I said, what about him?"

"Why do you care so much about him? Why are you being so ungrateful - that is most unlike you! I am willing, blindly willing, to offer you everything, and you still seek him!"

She stares blankly at the mirror. "You said you wanted to make me happy."

"I did."

She rises to her feet slowly. "A world without Raoul in it is a world without happiness in it."

He doesn't lose a beat. "So is one without you, my dear."

Her breath hitches.

"I have never been happy, Christine. You know the tale by now. This is my last chance at experiencing the glee that you, and everyone like you, are heedless of."

"Still, that does not-" She's falling again. She can't allow herself to, yet she's falling, he's getting his hooks into her once again and she's falling, falling further.

"You are not like them, Christine." Further still.

"You are kind, and full of love. You are not like them, I knew it since the moment I first saw you. You. ARE NOT. LIKE THEM." his tone is bellowing now, and she fears he will go into one of his tantrums.

Then, a deep exhalation of air. He recomposes himself, and the jeer is still there.

"Or are you?"

She lowers her eyes, her fingers fidgeting.

"I…"

No, she can't do this. She must be mad to even-

Placing her hand on the mirror, her forehead grazing the cold surface, she whispers, her voice barely audible. She's about to break down. "I am sorry." She blurts out before she can stop herself.

He sighs. "I know, my angel. I know and I forgive you. Now, be a good girl and come to me-"

Let her finish, for once.

"I am sorry that I am not willing or foolish enough to sacrifice my own happiness to make up for the one you've been deprived and robbed of your whole life. I am so sorry." She's weeping now, a sad smile appearing at the corners of her lips. Picking up her skirts, she turns around.

He's speechless. Completely dumbstruck. He can't even wrap his head around what she just uttered. He's just standing behind the mirror, trying to process everything, when he hears the door creak.

"Christine. Christine, don't you even think of walking out that door-"

Her hand is on the handle.

"Christine, please."

She peeks out around the corner. The Press are gone.

"Mon ange-"

"Goodbye, Erik."

"No, Christine-"

The door closes behind her with an ear-splitting thud. A member of the corps walking down the hallway claps her palms over her ears and eyes her in disapproval. She whispers "I'm sorry." in a hushed tone. She knows, however, that the great bang that had echoed throughout the building had not emerged from her door, but from Erik's fist simultaneously hitting the wall.

"I'm sorry." She breathes, again, and she is sorry, for everything, she truly is. She tries to be. Although she knows she shouldn't. And she wouldn't. From now on she won't, she promises to herself, as she strides down the corridor. To freedom. To the light.

*Tack och lov (Swedish): "Thank God/Praise the Lord"