A.N.- This is my first Phantom fic in a while, though I've loved the books, musical, and movies and whatnot for years. Please feel free review. Based on Webber, Leroux, and some Kay probably.
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Le coeur est imprévisible…
"The heart is unpredictable."
A strong mellifluous voice lilts through the air and captures her, causing her to be awestruck by its beauty. Gleaming amber eyes penetrate her and a flow of black fabric shrouds the lithe figure of a mysterious man. His air is a particular one of refinement and grace, and his gaze sharp and intense. A stark white mask sticks out almost mockingly with its sheer contrast to the beautiful visage around it, covering a half of the man's face.
The girl is drawn to the sharp and regal contours of his jaw line and the gleaming eyes, which are like liquid gold. The haunting voice has her entranced and a gloved hand is extended to her, waiting patiently for her to take it. She is hesitant and filled with mixed exhilaration and fear.
Then the man coos a name in his powerful voice, which causes her to breath unsteadily.
"Christine…" His voice is broken with passion and woe, and his figure illuminated in the soft candlelight.
He wants her to take his hand yet she just stands there, uncertain. He is so close, yet so far. His dark wings encompass her like a protective father, yet he is weeping.
"Christine, do I not love you?"
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Christine awoke with a start and looked around like a startled doe as she collected her thoughts. She held her covers protectively to her and breathed heavily when she glanced down at the sleeping figure next to her; Raoul de Chagny, her new husband, and former patron of the Opera Populaire. His light flaxen hair came down in soft tendrils and covered his handsome face from view and his chest rose and receded gently, indicating he was aloft in slumber.
Christine smiled absentmindedly at the sight yet pressed a hand to her forehead as she recalled her dream, which had been so palpable and seemed so utterly real. It had been a year since that final night and the destruction of the beloved Opera House, and the loss of her beloved Angel.
Erik…
She had closed her eyes momentarily and the thought of the man filled her with a great sorrow and wistfulness. There was another sense, a warmer and longing one that she could not place as well with the memory of the former troubled and ingenious Opera Ghost.
Christine wondered where he was, yet did not want to think of it at the same time. A part of her was afraid to, and she forced herself to dismiss the thought.
I am a married woman now, not a naïve child to be swayed by the Angel of Music any longer.
Oh, but how she was swayed! Erik still had an iron hold over her and would even in death. She would not admit this, nor mentioned it to Raoul, and affirmed herself daily that this new life was what was best and that that she had made the right decision.
In truth, Christine was pleased with her life with Raoul, for he was doting and kind, yet there was always something pinpricking at the back of her mind and caused her many troubled nights. It was the shade and treasured of Erik, her past wooer, teacher, and angel that haunted and thrilled her still.
That day she arose early before the sun peaked over the clouds and dressed in haste, for she was in a restless mood. Christine had not returned to the haphazard and charred remains of the Opera Garnier since that final night a year past. Little to no reconstruction had occurred, and it seemed people had been afraid to, as if the Phantom would rise to terrorize them once again.
It saddened Christine greatly. She had used little of her musical talents that year and had instead focused on settling into the routine of the Vicomte de Chagny's wife and putting up with the family's ridicule and disapproval of her. She was a Countess now; she thought little of it and spoke to Raoul of how she missed being a singer.
They thought of traveling to Italy or perhaps England where she could get a career there, yet Raoul was hesitant to leave his native France, and thus had delayed such a trip.
Christine sighed to herself at thinking of these things and decided she would take a trip that day. She left a note for Raoul and knew he would probably scold her senseless about her traveling alone, but she cared not at that moment and called for a carriage to take her into town.
When she gave the directions to her destination, the driver raised an eyebrow in surprise, yet complied. As they rode, Christine's mind drifted off and before she knew it she had dozed off into reminiscing.
"And Little Lotte thought…"
The fire flickering, their laughter swelling the room, a girl draped in lace and the sure and amiable face that was her father reading aloud to her from a book of stories…
"The Angel of Music…"
"We're here Madame."
Christine blinked rapidly and stirred. "Hm? What?" She glanced around, bewildered, and collected her senses. The driver was staring at her impatiently and she hastily withdrew her purse and dropped several coins in to his hands before getting off.
She glanced around then.
The Rue Scribe…
Christine laughed to herself then.
Am I really going to go back down there? I don't have a boat. Honestly Christine this is ridiculous! The only thing you will find is the murky water and an isolated home with no more spirit.
She stared intensely at the gate before she felt someone bump roughly into her, causing her to stagger and fall backward. A stack of papers flew everywhere and a man cried out in disdain.
"Pardon Madame!" The voice was inflected with an accent and Christine glanced up as the man extended his hand and hastily gathered up his papers to him.
She stared in wonder at the face, slightly lined with age with olive skin, black eyes, and hair hidden by an astrakhan cap. He was Persian perhaps and the sight of him intrigued her. She felt stupid when she realized how long she had been staring, and flushed before accepting the man's hand.
Christine dusted herself off and the man looked contritely at her. "I am sorry Madame, I was in a hurry."
Christine nodded, not really listening and began to walk away before the man noticed something that struck him and stopped him. "Wait, Madame, are you by perchance the Countess de Chagny?"
Christine stopped abruptly at glanced at him. "Yes, why?"
The foreigner's eyes gleamed and something passed across his face, recognition of some kind, which she could not place. It disturbed her and she wanted to leave. The look was fleeting however, before the man smiled warmly.
"I apologize for my rudeness. My name is Nadir Khan. What brings a fine lady such as you to town today? Is it not unusual to be wandering by yourself? Does your husband know of this?"
Christine inclined her weight, feeling awkward and not able to meet the man's curious gaze. She thought he looked familiar somehow, but couldn't place it. "That is my business sir, and I assure you my husband knows where I go. Now if you excuse me, I ought to be on my way."
She began to walk away and stopped when Nadir spoke softly. "Were you waiting to meet someone?"
He accentuated the last word and Christine flinched and rounded on him. "Sir I really ought to be going and so should you."
Nadir raised his arms in defeat but his eyes glinted at realizing he had hit a mark. He gave her a low, sweeping bow. "Avoir Madame, and good day to you then. It was a pleasure to meet you. I run a tea shop not two streets away if you should ever like to visit." With that he left as swiftly as he had come, leaving Christine flustered.
She felt cold then and glanced at the Rue Scribe gate for a long moment. Her eyebrows furrowed and she massaged her temples. She decided to head for the decimated Opera House and wandered like a lost and pensive ghost among its remains.
There were few people there, exclude a couple construction men who weren't really doing anything at all. Christine tightened her shawl around her when she went down a solitary corridor and recalled a memory of young ballerinas bustling to and fro about. She stopped at the desolate stage and stood there for a long moment, taking in the once magnificent rows of seats and private boxes. She glanced at box five and something wet clung to her lashes before she hastily brushed it away and left.
Christine went to her old dressing room and glance at the translucent mirror that still stood there. The room had gathered a film of dust and she wiped the mirror and stared at her reflection. She hardly recognized herself in her more formal attire of a Countess and her undulating chestnut curls drawn back in a favorable fashion to reveal more of her docile face. She traced a hand gently over the mirror before falling to her knees and burying her face in her hands.
"Angel…"
He was not there. There was nothing left of the grandeur Opera House but dust, splinters of wood, and charred remains. Christine would not even venture down the tunnel that lay beyond the mirror, for she knew it had been infiltrated by the mob the night that the Opera had been destroyed and did not want to see the destruction that lay beneath.
She could image the many works of art and the vast organ, littered with an array of compositions being consumed by flames and it made her heart wrench. With a sigh, she stood up and glanced around one last time. Something pricked at her, a familiar feeling, yet she ignored it and slowly made her way to move.
Christine did not notice a pair of cat-like and golden eyes watching her as she departed.
TBC!