Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! I wish I could be honest and say it wont happen again, but this story is still in the works; I was just so excited to get it started! But after a large delay while I was away, I am back home in the States and getting through the semester in college. For those wondering, Paris was amazing. I actually finished this chapter as well as started the next and had many notes on what to do next... then I lost my notebook. So somewhere, wandering around Paris is a notebook full of my writing which I will never get back and which I am very sad about. Not to mention, all that I had planned is gone and I can't remember it all for the life of me! Regardless, I'll get it back to memory... Anyway! This is an in-between chapter of sorts. The next chapter should be more colorful and exciting, but for now, this gives a first look at Raoul and Christine. Hope you enjoy and thank you all for your patience!


After sorting and refolding the sheets, Christine turned her attention toward beating the collected dust off of the rug. She draped it over the front ledge of the porch, using the bristles of the broom left to their inheritance by her great uncle to send the particles flying up into the air. She pretended that it would not affect the food which was set just on the other side of the stair's banister. It mattered not to her, for she knew the food was left to waste anyway. At times, she'd pretend she was being allowed to swat the "appointed town overseer" from behind, letting it be known how she felt about him and his manners. Christine felt greatly respected back in her home of Knivsta despite her young age, being part of the community and valued by her peers and her elders. Now, whether it was because of her age or her femininity, she was pushed aside as a mere source of amusement to the pompous man.

The relief of using the rug as her source of release had taken her mind off of everything within time. The rug was clear of dust and even then Christine continued to beat at it, looking off into the distant and remembering the airs of her old life. This new life looked so inviting, but now it was beginning to appear to be bleak. Though the fresh sea air was refreshing to her northern senses, the unenthusiastic response to their arriving seemed unnatural and painful to breathe in.

With her distracted mind, Christine didn't realize her papa had joined her on the porch until his hand fell gently on her shoulder. She spun around quickly, holding the broom behind her back and looking up to her father with a blush of embarrassment across her checks.

"Quit your work, Christine," he said softly.

"But Papa, I still must scrub the floors," Christine said.

"There will be time for that," Daaé said.

"But what of the folding? And rinsing the spare foods?" Christine asked.

"It will all be taken care of," he said. "For now, we must attend the festival in the town's square."

"But Papa—"

"Not another word, Christine," her father said. "I would like you to go ahead and take your leave for the feast. I will be there before long to join you."

Christine turned her head to the side, trying to hide her apprehension. Though old enough now to begin a life of her own, Christine was still rather much like a child. Her father's coddling spirit kept her in a constant state of adolescence, yet somewhere deep within her heart, she knew she too could ascend to be more independent from her papa. In the mean time, it was difficult in the given circumstances.

Charles smiled and pulled his daughter toward him, resting a hand on each shoulder and looking her square in the eyes.

"Do not fret, my daughter. You will be in good company. I have no doubt that you will be well received here in Perros."

"It is quite different here," Christine said.

"Yes, but I you are a charming young lady who has always had a way with crowds," Daaé said. "Be yourself and you will find a home within this new kingdom."

Christine forced a smile and nodded her head.

"Yes, Papa," she said submissively.

She went inside and retrieved her cloak and scarf from inside on the table, wrapping them carefully around her shoulders. Christine took her time as she prepared to leave, hoping it would allow her the chance to walk with her papa to the feast. As he continued shuffling between the upstairs and down, Christine asked once more if he would like any more, then bid him farewell.

Red was still painted in the evening sky as Christine walked down the western path. There was hardly enough light left, but the path was so open and clear that she knew it wouldn't bother to go back for a lantern, despite the lack of a moon in the sky that night. She looked off toward the west, out into the woods which happened to be untouched by those who lived in this strange place. Treguier seemed much more similar to her home, yet why was Perros so different in their ways?

With a great swoop of dusty wings, a creature flew over Christine's head, lofting downward before stretching out its talons and perching itself on the only tree left on the trail within the vicinity. Christine looked and saw she was a small Tawny owl, ruffling her feathers and looking out toward the forests beyond. She gave an exaggerated hoot into the distance and then waited for a reply from beyond.

Christine also waited for a response with anticipation, wondering if she were far enough into the forest to be heard. The owl tried her luck again, but this time, was greeted by Christine's own call as she cupped her hands around her mouth and mimicked her call. The owl turned her head and looked out toward the land she just flew from, cocking her head to the side and waddling in a semi-circle to face forward again. Christine returned the call to her new companion.

Hoot-hoot, hoot, Christine called.

The owl replied.

A smile pressed over Christine's lips as she called out to her new companion again, this time venturing outside of the regular three-hoot pattern. The she-owl leaned forward, intrigued by the stranger's call with her eyes wide with intrigue, and she waited before offering the same reply as before.

Hoot-hoot, hoot.

Christine giggled, trying to remain quiet so as not to frighten her friend. She snuck forward, standing beside the stump of a tree which surely once stood tall and proud, and prepared herself to send out another call when she jumped at the sound of a voice behind her.

"Owls are only enjoyable when they are pinned to the walls of the barn," the voice said.

Christine turned around quickly, gasping for breath as she noticed a boy standing behind her.

He was young, though appeared close to Christine's age. Even with his mahogany brown hair, his features were light and inviting, for his eyes were nearly hazel in color. They were different from the dreary eyes which she had seen throughout the town of Perros so far. She guessed him to be near eighteen years of age, for his face seemed to be mature yet still had a cunning youthfulness to it. His jaw was weak while his shoulders were strong, lifting the head of a young man of importance, for his dress and style suggested he was of great report. Even with his nice dress, he stood with his arms stretched out to his sides, balancing on top of an unstable log.

"I beg your pardon?" Christine asked, still trying to pass for being unaffected by his sudden appearance.

The boy laughed, jumping off of the log, letting it roll behind him.

"You will find no use in talking to owls," he said. "They are more fun to hunt."

"Hunt?" Christine asked, appalled.

She looked behind to see that her friend the Tawny owl had flown away.

Probably better off, Christine thought. With a hunter in her presence.

"Of course," the boy said. "It's great sport out here."

"Is that what everybody does for fun here?" Christine asked.

"We have plenty else to do," the boy said.

"Like la Toussaint?"

The young man eyed her for a moment, seeming to try and understand the intent behind her comment. He smirked and shook his head, turning back to the log and rolling it over with his foot. It tumbled a few rolls down the path then stopped against the surface of a stone.

"Traveling without a light?" he asked without turning back.

"Yes," Christine said, watching him now squat down to grab a handful of dirt from the ground.

"That is quite foolish of you," he said casually.

"I am not afraid of the dark," Christine said boldly.

"It's not the dark you should be afraid of," the boy said rather coolly.

"Oh?" Christine asked, also bending down toward the ground to better see what it was he was doing. "Then what is it I should fear so?" She crouched beside him and looked into his face, cocking her head to the side.

The boy looked to her eyes, staring in intrigue at the crystal blue color a moment before leaning in a bit closer.

"A demon stealing your heart," he said.

Christine nearly laughed. She smiled a foxy grin to the boy before reaching out to him for the soil which he was so intent on collecting. He examined her hand before running the soil from his hand to hers.

"I thought those were only stories," Christine said as the dirt piled into her fingers.

The soil in her hands was rich and moist, perfectly lush for ideal growing. Why was nature discouraged from producing in this place? Were these stories they concocted truly the reason for such insanity?

"These stories are told from truth," the boy said too casually.

"Then does the entire village live their lives based off of fables?" Christine demanded.

The boy seemed strangely calm despite the questioning he received. He merely reached out and turned Christine's hand over, dumping the dirt back onto the ground and out of her hands.

"They are not fables," the boy said. "They are tales passed down from experience."

"Then new tales must be told everyday," Christine said.

"What do you mean?" the boy asked.

"If this village is truly plagued by the spirits you all speak of, then new tales must be told with each encounter anybody has," Christine said. "That is, of course, if they are even true."

The boy's amused smile turned downward, casting a shadow of ire upon his face. He clutched his fist into a ball and held it close to his crouched knee, tightening his jaw as a reminder to keep his composure.

"The stories are rooted in the past," he said. "We have learned since how to handle our circumstances. There have been villagers here for thousands of years who have learned ways to appease the demons we share our homes with, and thus, through their spoken word, we have averted such conception of tales."

Christine hoped to have a witty comeback but she was at a loss for words. His speech was given with such dignity that she hated to try and pull him down further, yet she could not understand how a village could be so blinded by stories.

"Do you truly think so poorly of the lore?" the boy asked sadly.

"I believe stories are mere fairytales," Christine confirmed.

"With absolutely no truth?" the boy pressed.

"No more than a lesson to teach to children."

"Then what do you believe?" the boy demanded.

"What do you mean?"

"What directs you in this life?" he asked. "What controls your fears and beckons your desires? What did you bring with you from your homeland of Knivsta which drives you everyday?"

Christine thought for a moment – not of what it was she believed in – but what she should tell the boy before her. His passion had truly turned the conversation, yet maybe he could make her understand what it was she was now living amongst.

"We have stories of many different beings," Christine started slowly. "Of the Fossegrimen, Nøkken, the draug, of dragons… but the legends of our land revolve around Odin, who leads the wild hunts through the great forests. He cloaks himself in the prizes of his hunts, letting not a scrap of his game go to waste and he protects the forests from Fanden and the underjordiske."

"Who are they?" the boy asks.

"Why, Fanden is the devil, of course. And the underjordiske are the spirits whose souls lay improperly to rest. They wander the land as slaves, doing Fanden's biding until they are per-chance saved by the spirits who serve the Maker."

"Angels," the boy said.

"They have no real name," Christine corrected.

"But here," the boy said, trying to get her to understand. "We refer to them as angels. They have a power humans do not understand, for they lack scrutiny toward others. They are accepting of anybody with a true heart."

"Yes," Christine nearly whispered. "That is much like our heavenly beings."

"Then they must be the same."

The boy smiled to Christine and she offered hers in return. It was relieving to have at least something in common with the kingdom of Trégor, for it was the beings from heaven Christine most admired. Their spirits most inspired her. Yet now, she was acting nothing like the friendly figures who were accepting to all beings. Instead, she was condemning any ideas presented to her as false, which like the wicked Fanden was known to do. Christine closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to rid the demon from her mind – be it underjordiske or ghoul – so that she could see more clearly and understand Perros' stories with a clear mind.

The boy watched closely and then smiled.

"Come," the he said, realizing the light from the sky was now completely absent. "We will retrieve a lantern for you at our home. You shall not attend the feast without one."

He stood and offered his hand to Christine after wiping the remains of the soil on his pant-leg. Christine stared at his hand for a moment until he pushed it farther toward her, urging her to take it. She slipped her fingers within his and was levitated from the ground by a strong arm.

"By the way," he said as she was pulled in close to him. "My name is Raoul."

"My name is Christine –"

"Daaé," the boy finished for her. "Yes, I know. My brother visited your home no more than an hour ago."


Even after discovering that this stranger was kin to the "appointed town overseer," the walk to his home was surprisingly agreeable. Christine had expected her already rooted feelings for his brother to take control but Raoul was much more pleasant to talk to. He asked many questions about Christine's home back in Knivsta and when she asked to leave the topic, he apologized and obliged immediately. There was something about speaking about the past while it was still too fresh in the memory that fatigued Christine.

Raoul walked closely to Christine, holding his lantern's light high enough to cover both of their shadows. Even with the grey tones in the sky not yet fully extinguished, the lack of light in the evening air made Raoul take any precaution he could. He continued walking in this fashion.

The conversation was turned to his family, which might have appalled Christine had the tale been told by Philippe. But Raoul's modest way of pushing his family's fortune in Perros aside contented her. It wasn't until she mentioned her brother's position that he even brought his family up. He shook his head and seemed reluctant himself to speak about it, but as he continued, Christine understood why:

Five years prior, their father had passed away, leaving the position of overseer to his eldest son. Philippe was twenty-eight when the duties were placed upon him, but immediately Raoul could see the difference in his brother's demeanor. He grew distant and cold, leaving their home often and coercing with fortune tellers, gypsies and sorceresses. The spirits surrounding Perros seemed to constantly occupy his mind, but Raoul had never noticed until their mother died only eighteen months after her husband. Philippe was to take charge himself, his brother, and the village; all while trying to mend the heart which had lost his father, mother and wife within two years.

"His wife as well?" Christine asked sadly.

"He was married to Isobel for two years before she died," Raoul said.

"What happened to her?" Christine asked.

"Nobody really knows," Raoul replied. "It is still a mystery never fully explained."

Christine shook her head sadly, feeling poorly now for having disliked the man so much upon their initial meeting.

They arrived in front of a large home, situated far back on a plot of land which offered little land after the entry. It was more an estate which Raoul led Christine to, quite obviously larger than the rest of the cottages scattered along the land. It was evident that Raoul was embarrassed by the extravagance of the place and he apologized for the inconvenience of having to stop here several times before even reaching the front door. Three large tables were lined in front, filled with food in three separate courses. The quality was extravagant, decorated in fine patterns to show off the quality of help the household surely kept.

As Christine walked inside, she was greeted by a foyer with two pairs of stairs leading up either side of the entry. In the center of the ground floor were two doors. Raoul asked Christine to stay in the foyer as he disappeared behind a door which appeared to lead through a kitchen. Christine turned about the room as she heard rummaging on the opposite side of the door and looked up the stairs to see three doors lined along a loft of the top of each stairway. Large paintings of men were hung between each door. One spot on the farthest side of the right door was left open, waiting for a face to adorn the wall, joining the regal family in conceit.

The door of the kitchen swung open and Raoul emerged again holding his lantern along with a single white candle. He held it out to Christine.

"It is all we have left," Raoul said. "But it will do. The air is meant to remain still tonight."

Christine took the candle in her hands and held it out for Raoul to light. He leaned his lantern close to the wick and tilted it up to ignite it with light. As the ember kindled between the two of them, Raoul smiled and nodded his head toward the door.

"We should be going."


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- Phantom's angel