Okay…um, as far as introductions go, this is my first Phantom story, and it sucks pretty bad. I promised a better summary, so here it is:
The night before their wedding, Christine abandons Raoul without reason and returns to her Angel of Music at the opera house. But she leaves behind a shattered vicomte, who, with the "help" of Sorelli and her ballet rats, is forced to pick up the pieces of his failed romance and begin life anew. Mostly Leroux-based, but I changed a few things: for example, I don't ever recall M. Leroux mentioning if Mama Valerius had cats; and I think that in the book Phillipe's death was ruled a suicide, but I thought it would be more interesting if the police deemed it a murder and Raoul were the prime suspect. I'd check the book, but my copy is currently out on loan to a friend who isn't reading it! Give me back my book, Allison!
Anyway, moving on…
Part 1
He looked out the window from the train; the scenery seemed to be moving by in slow motion, just like his life. Trees, villages, the occasional farm. The sky was gray and rumbled with an impending storm. He looked up to see a heavy ash-colored cloud roll by. At that moment, nothing would have pleased him more than to be beside that cloud.
Sitting across from him on that stuffy, maddeningly claustrophobic train car was his future bride, his beloved Christine. She was asleep, her head resting peacefully against the jacket that he had lent her for that purpose. To her left was Mama Valerius, knitting feverishly, with her cats Georges and Danielle in a satchel at her feet. Neither of them had spoken two words to him since they rushed onto the train out of Paris. That was yesterday.
The Vicomte had never meant for it to turn out like that. He had supposed that Christine's escape from the opera house and its twisted Ghost would be a cause for celebration, not more melancholy. He and Christine would hurry aboard the late-night train to the coast—to Perros, the setting of the happy days of their youth—and be married, and start new lives somewhere where nobody could find them and interrogate them about their hasty flight from the Opera scene. He hadn't intended on bringing Mama Valerius along either, but since the old woman depended on Christine, Raoul had decided that it would be a most un-Christian thing to leave her behind in that miserable apartment.
Another reason for the awkward voyage was the matter of the death of the Comte Phillipe de Chagny, his brother. The previous night, when he and Christine had emerged from the cellars of the opera, they were immediately informed by La Sorelli, the opera's prima ballerina and a close friend of Phillipe's, that the illustrious Count had been murdered (drowned!) and that Raoul was, at the moment, the prime suspect. Sorelli confessed that as soon as Phillipe's body had been found, rumors began to fly among the corps de ballet that it had been a dispute over a woman that had done him in—more specifically, over Madamoiselle Christine Daae, and with his seemingly ingenuous brother, the vicomte, who, according to the ballet rats, was really no more than a fop who took delight in stealing the Opera's brightest star, Miss Daae. Raoul, upon hearing it, knew immediately that the Phantom, Erik, had had his hand in it, but remained silent on the matter of the Opera Ghost. Perhaps, he mused, if he had spoken up, the whole situation that he and Christine (and now Mama Valerius and her cats) were involved in could have been avoided. But then, would the police have even believed him? If he had spoken up, he would probably be on his way to an asylum instead of to Perros.
Christine stirred in her sleep, tearing the vicomte from his reverie. He watched as her hands clenched into fists in her lap and she let out a low whimper, as if she were being tortured in her dreams. And, more than likely, she was. Raoul had already realized that she would never be able to fully forget Erik; he was her Angel of Music, her tutor, and her inspiration. Without his guidance, her voice would have been lost forever in the ruinous memories of her late father. And Raoul…was none of these things. He had no talents, no genius, no power over people—none of that enchanting magic which the Phantom of the Opera possessed. Raoul, on the other hand, never had much in the way of charms: he had lived his whole life in the shadow of his brother, and had never really grown up; he still lived with the passionate sincerity and hunger for truth and purity of someone half his present age. It disgusted him.
He let his mind wander, and pondered, for a second, what his fiancée really thought of him. Did she really love him like she said she did? Or was she simply taking advantage of his money, title, and lack of worldliness, just like every other woman in the opera? He had seen it happen to his brother numerous times; only with his most recent lady friend, the ballerina Sorelli, had he found a remote semblance of that peace with a woman that had eluded the de Chagny men for centuries. Was there really a turn in luck for the family? Was true love possible? Or perhaps the relationship of Phillipe and Sorelli was just a fluke, and Raoul was doomed to discord with the opposite sex, like so many before him? He didn't know, and for once, his cluelessness began to bother him. He wished desperately to be able to see inside Christine's mind, and know once and for all if this romance which he had put his entire heart and soul into was really worth it.
When Raoul finally opened his eyes (which he hadn't even realized he had closed in the first place), he saw the dramatic, wide eyes of Christine staring back at him. They held no discernable expression; he could not see what she was feeling, could not see the words she meant but was too traumatized, even now, to say.
Was this the same Christine he had fallen in love with at that young age, and again just a few months ago? He honestly did not remember. It seemed like the fire which burned in her for all that time at the opera house had now died. And yet, she had been the one to talk of running away, of escaping the Phantom's relentless, terrifying pursuit of her. Their nightmare was finally over, so why weren't either of them happy?
A tear rolled painfully down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly, forcing a smile.
"Christine, I do love you," he blurted out to her without a thought. "If anything, I want you to know that."
"Thank you," she whispered, almost as if she was embarrassed by his declaration. They said nothing more, and Christine stared down at her hands, which were placed delicately in her lap.
From the end of one nightmare, we simply ride on into the next one, Raoul thought as his gaze once again turned to the stormy sky.
Okay, I wrote this late at night so cut me some slack. Um, it would help me ever-so-much if you would review, either encouragements or constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. Wanker phangirls flaming me with bad English skills about how Raoul sucks need not apply.