Lovely, gentle Christine had always been known for her softness, her goodness, her kindness. Everyone saw her as light, as beauty - Erik, more than anyone, of course...and herself least of all.
No one could have suspected that the shining, smiling, bright Christine Daaè doubted herself in nearly everything she did. No one except her Angel, of course, and although he was occasionally strict, he made certain that he was constantly reassuring her of her capability to reach the stars, made certain that any passion, any drive she felt, came from belief within herself - he knew she would not survive life as an Opera singer if she wasn't at least mostly sure of herself. Perhaps not to the point of rivaling Carlotta's vanity, but he wanted nothing more than his prima donna to understand that she was a star, even if she did not always feel like one.
Not long before her Angel revealed himself to her, she'd grown more and more doubtful of herself, of her capabilities and even her amiability. She'd run off directly after rehearsals to her dressing room and sit in front of her mirror approximately fifteen minutes before their own rehearsals were set to begin, and tell her Angel about her day. He was a bit gruff when this new tradition began, but he realized the young Daaè was in need of a companion, someone other than her naive and gentle Meg. He was more than happy to oblige upon her need for his feedback, advice, or even commentary on the stories she told him about her day.
She entered the dressing room a little too slowly one particular Tuesday, however, the swing lost from her step, the color faded from her cheeks. Her Angel looked upon her as she slowly kneeled down in front of the mirror, eventually plopping down onto the ground altogether and crossing her legs, all attempts at propriety discarded - she slumped before him, placing her face in her hands.
"Christine?" He said in a gentle, hushed tone, something he had not realized his voice was even capable of.
Her lips did not even twitch with the beginnings of a smile as they normally would upon hearing the voice of her Angel - she barely even looked up at the mirror to acknowledge him.
"Christine, my darling, please?" He continued. "Please, Christine, tell me what has upset you so greatly?" Her Angel was now pleading, pleading, and he scolded himself for being so attached to her, so attuned...he knew the strength and the depth of his love for her would surely end him, if not drive him more mad than he already was.
"Angel…" she sighed, looking up slightly, one light blue eye peeking through a curtain of brown curls.
"Yes, Christine? What is it, mon ange?"
There was a long period of silence. Several moments consisted only of Christine opening her mouth as though she had finally found the words to say, then abruptly closing it, dismissing her thoughts. She looked down at her lap, seemingly attempting to make her thick, messy hair further conceal her face, if that was even possible. "Do you think…do you think I am...good enough?"
Her Angel was dumbfounded. What on earth could she possibly mean? Is she good enough for what? For singing? For the young Vicomte he knew was pursuing her? For humanity? The true question, he knew, was were they good enough for her? The answer was no. Absolutely not. She was an angel incarnate, a goddess, a -
"Angel?" She whispered anxiously, still awaiting his response.
"I simply…" he began. "Whatever do you mean?" He continued, baffled. His tone almost had a slight edge to it, completely exasperated by the fact that this girl, this angel, felt the need to ask an elusive, ominous being, of all people, if she was good enough. What on earth caused her to resort to seeking out his opinion? What on earth caused her to desire anyone's opinion in the first place?
Her lower lip was now quivering as she fumbled with the edge of the skirts of her dress, looking so much like the fidgeting child she was once when she arrived at the Opera house. "I am a dancer, Angel. I know that singing is my passion, but I am a dancer, and...there is a certain way we are expected to look, you see." She attempted to explain, but he did not catch on.
Her Angel did not see where the problem was. Were her legs not long enough, as exquisitely long as they were, despite her short height? Was her skin not fair enough, her cheeks not rosy enough? Most of all, was her smile not enough, or the light in her eyes, the gracefulness of her step, the light in her soul, the light in her soul that shined through in every performance, somehow not enough? What kind of fool would ever cause her to contemplate such a question?
"Perhaps he did not catch on because he is an Angel," she thought to herself. "Such vain affairs as worrying about one's weight surely do not concern holy beings." She decided it was best to be blunt, that there was no other way her Angel would understand. She sighed once more before further elaborating for her poor, clueless Angel. "I am not small, in any way. My figure is not as sharp, as elegantly defined, as those of most ballet dancers - I am not tall, either...I am simply short and...and...oh, Angel! I am nothing, truly, I do not know why you have selected me to instruct, perhaps my voice is good but -"
His bellowing voice cut her off. "Who dared to cause you to believe such a ridiculous idea? You? Not good enough? Your figure, your beauty, not perfectly heavenly and exquisite? Most of all, who dared to convince you that your talent, your mind, and your soul, are not vastly more important than the size of your waist? I could go on for days, Christine, for days on how your physique alone is stunning, but your voice, your mind, your heart...Christine, there are no words to describe…" he trailed off, realizing he had gone too far when he noticed her mouth was opened in an "O" form, her hands now slack against her side, her entire figure motionless as she stared into the mirror. He almost wondered if she could see him.
"I...I had no clue you...you thought such things, Angel. I did not think you were capable of even acknowledging mere mortal concepts such as outer beauty...inner beauty, I know, is something you can see and appreciate, but I truly didn't…" Christine couldn't even find the words to continue, not knowing how to express her shock at his clear admiration for her. She felt a warm, fuzzy feeling from her chest all the way down to the pit of her stomach, that seemed to almost burn the longer the silence continued. "Thank you, Angel, I...truly do not know how to even begin to express what your kind words mean to me," she nearly murmured, her voice so soft it was nearly undetectable as she stared down at the floor awkwardly. Her cheeks now looked as though they had been stained with wine, patched with deep tones of red, and her hands were clutching the edge of her skirts, seeming to be the only thing grounding her as she attempted not to tremble. She had no clue why his words had such an affect on her, she…
If her Angel was confused before, all hope of him ever fully processing what had just occurred was fully lost when he noticed signs of Christine responding to his rambling comments regarding his obvious affections positively, not with disgust, disdain or fear - no, she was, she was...it simply could not be. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and if she could see through the mirror, she would find him awkwardly shifting on his feet, adjusting his suit as though she was watching. "You are most welcome, my child. I am happy to reassure you of your...well, your beauty. I do not find it a sin to inform you of my...slightly enamored opinions if I am only being honest and...and, of course, only doing so in hopes of raising your spirits," he said, attempting to justify his almost blatantly romantic statements earlier, hoping she would forget all about it.
Christine did not forget about the time her Angel reminded her that she was good enough. It, of course, did not fully absolve her of her insecurities, but she found herself thinking of his words whenever she felt truly lost, even at times she had not wanted to think of him, such as when she dressed for the Masquerade Ball or prepared to go on stage in Don Juan. Whenever she looked into her mirror, placing her hands around her waist, pinching and feeling as though she should just dance a bit more, eat a bit less - she could almost hear her Angel's voice on the other side, with his awkward, jumbled, beautiful compliment - the declaration of the love she now understood he had always held for her.
Now, as Christine lay in bed with Erik, her softness pressed against his sharp, bony edges, she wondered once again if she was ever too soft, if there was room for improvement. She must have accidentally pondered this aloud, because her Angel, her Erik, now began to whisper in her ear, so much closer than he ever was when that mirror separated them.
"You are exquisite, my dear. Everything about you is so soft and good and lovely. I would not change a hair on your head, a freckle on your body - and even if you were hairless with freckles in the worst of places, I would still love you for your talent, your ambition, your grace, your kindness...your voice, of course, and most importantly, your heart," he softly whispered, pressing a kiss to her neck. He felt her curl against him, wrapping her leg around his hip and her arm around his waist, attempting to be as close to him as possible. "I would love you just as you have loved me, Christine, if you were not so outwardly beautiful. That is merely a...bonus of sorts. I assure you, though, you truly are blessed, from the blue of your eyes to the brown of your hair to the curve of your hips...I worship you, Christine," he continued as she began to drift off, the sound of Erik expressing his endless adoration for her lulling her into a comfortable sleep.
The next morning, when she woke, she would not worry about breakfast as she used to when she was younger, would not see it as such a daunting task. Her Angel would cook for them both and they would enjoy tea together, no longer worried about whether or not their appearances were sufficient for the people above them, no longer worried about satisfying society's ideals for the perfect body or face, only thinking of how beautiful they both were to each other.