Author's Note: This chapter took a bit longer than I originally intended to post, but this past month has been… a bit of a downer for me. Between finals, Christmas quickly approaching and the death of my beloved dog, I just haven't been able to do it. I'm not really apologizing, just giving excuses :) Anyway, this chapter is intended to be more of a counterpoint into what is quickly becoming the end… Yes, it came all too soon, but I also tend to not write too long of phics, but just elaborate on certain headcanons of mine. So without further ado, another unnamed chapter. Thanks again for reading and just a reminder that reviews are VERY much appreciated!
Raoul played the violin that night for Christine after dinner. They sat in the comfort of the study, where the maids would peak their heads in and walk by slowly to gain a chance to listen, for they were surprised that the Comte knew how to play. They would turn to each other and smile, nodding in their approval and laughing quietly to themselves at any fault he would encounter, but generally were pleased with the performance he gave to his wife.
Christine smiled politely to her husband but could not bring herself to adhere to the charm of his playing. It was, in fact, charming, just as her voice once was. But it lacked depth and emotion. It lacked feeling and power which left Christine feeling unsatisfied. She longed to hear the thrill that music once gave her, lifting her soul from her body and taking it to new heights. It seemed that all of the last pieces of music she had heard easily transported her so, whether it was from the melodies that had been getting stuck in her head lately, from the opera, or from the pursuits of her own singing just that afternoon, recalling the sensation that Faust had given to her.
Throughout Raoul's renditions of classics, Christine's mind searched for the better memories that music has offered her, from her father's melodies matched to her singing, to Erik. Even as the spark of Raoul's lessons in Perros-Guirec flashed into recollection, Christine smiled to herself. Yet now, his art on the violin angered her. The scrapping of the strings of such a beautiful instrument made her cringe, and as Marie stuck her head into the study and held her arms out to clap for the Comte, Christine fought off a scowl. He truly was trying and for somebody who hadn't touched a violin for so many years, he was actually doing quite well. Yet his gift to her was not what she wanted.
Raoul finished much to Christine's relief and he had the look of true accomplishment across his face. He was proud to retouch the favorable traits of their long past, reclaiming the pieces of the relationship they both truly had in common. She forced herself to smile to him, reminding herself that he truly felt a glorification in his feats. After all, she was trained by a genius.
The thought of Erik made Christine shake her head again, trying to keep him out of her mind, for she could only imagine that he shared similar thoughts of Raoul's renditions as she did, if he even were still lurking behind the walls still.
Together, they relocated to the bedroom. Raoul took Christine by the hand, placing the violin on top of his desk and leading her out through the foyer and up to staircase. As they went, they passed Sarah, who bowed politely as they passed and smiled to the Comte, silently giving her approval. Raoul beamed as Christine turned her head away.
As they entered their bedroom, Raoul was closing the door behind him as Christine quickly began to change. They were closed back in, away from their past and back to the present they established together. Raoul turned to his wife and gave a sheepish smile, watching her finish putting on her nightgown and crawling underneath the covers.
"Shall we try again tonight?" he asked, hinting to her.
Christine looked up at him and shook her head silently, knowing precisely what he was talking about.
Raoul scowled.
Without paying any more mind to Raoul, she pulled the covers high over her shoulder and cozied herself under the sheets. Raoul quietly went about changing for the night as if he were creeping about the room, trying not to let his already acknowledge presence be known. As he finished, he slowly slid under the covers and focused himself on Christine, readying his hands as he sprang at her playfully and made her jump with a fright.
"Raoul, please," she said.
"Come now, Christine," he said, begging.
"Please, not tonight," she said sadly.
Raoul looked down to her questioningly, watching her sad expression turn to worry.
"What is making you so distressed, Christine?" he asked.
Christine lost her gaze with him. She closed her eyes and shook her head, biting her lip tightly. How could she tell him? It really was nothing, anyway. Her affections were for Raoul, she knew that clearly. Even upon seeing Erik that afternoon, then abruptly being comforted by Raoul, she knew it was he she truly did love. While Raoul held her heart, Erik held the key to what she loved outside of flesh: music. Raoul would never comprehend that…
"I'm fine," Christine said at last.
Raoul sighed heavily.
"Please believe me, Raoul," Christine said.
"I wish I could," Raoul said sadly. "But I can't when I know something is troubling you deeply."
"Just know," Christine said, carefully placing her words, "that I love you very much and anything that is troubling to me is purely in my mind."
"And how can I help that?" Raoul asked, pressing.
"Time, perhaps."
"Very well," Raoul said, unsatisfied.
He turned over heavily on his side of the bed and left Christine to the thoughts within her head. They alternated from her encounter that afternoon, to the music Raoul attempted, to the memories of her past in Sweden, Northern France and in Paris. They took her back to the streets of the city, to the small halls which she once sang, and finally to the Opera Garnier. To the majestic theatre that let her musical journey truly take wing under the guidance of her angel of music. Where she recaptured her love for the young Vicomte de Chagny and learned so much about herself in a strange turn of events. Had she never come to the opera, she would now have known life the way she knew it now, for better or for worse.
As her eyes grew heavy, the images of the beautiful artwork of the palace filled her mind and captured the imagination like it once had as she first entered its doors. She smiled as her eyelids fell over her eyes, taking her back to the stage standing before an empty house. A light shone down on her, filling her eyes with the radiant beams that came from the Heavens with the sound of brilliant song filling her ears. Just before the light, emerging from the depths of a trap-door was the trickster himself, engulfed in shadow in the backing of the heavenly rays.
Christine didn't attempt to strain, for she knew it was Erik who was coming before her. She could feel his presence like a spine clamping chill, holding her tightly in a wintry embrace. Through his shadow, she could see his hand raise, commanding her to sing again. She willingly obliged, filling her lungs with the sweet passions of the melody ringing inside of her.
She couldn't hear, but felt his corrections as if she was his marionette and he was commanding her dance; he seemed to control her chords, for Erik was like music itself. He was dark, yet pure. Imaginary, yet tangible, night, yet the daylight, and sweet, yet sorrow-filled in each refrain. He embodied every beauty of a true angel, so deserving of Beauty in return, yet he presented monstrosity, sporting and embracing all that was seen as horrible. Christine offered the only passion acceptable to such a creature: her song, filled with all the love she was capable of bestowing upon him.
Erik shifted in his darkness, outlined by the light as Christine's song faded to watch him. She turned her head, trying to catch his features without fear or pity, but could not make out his deformities. He pivoted around her, the outline of a hat placed atop his head becoming noticeable as she stretched her arms out to his indistinct form.
"You belong to me," Erik's figure said.
"To you or to music?" Christine asked.
"To the Opera," Erik said, his arm sweeping across the black void understood to be the audience.
Christine strained to see beyond the harsh glow. She squinted, eager to see the strange home that had shielded her from the sharp realities of the real life that tried to invade her. The taking of her father's life, the illness of her adoptive mother, the gossip in the social world and the call of suitors who once distracted from her art. The glow around her was just like the Opera was to her, keeping her out of the cruel world's reach while she grew to be the queen of a world of imagination. All of the costumes, set pieces, props and orchestrations were mere fabrications of what true life was, yet Christine was in control of it. The Opera was Christine's kingdom, yet she had been gone for too long.
She swore she could hear the sound of an audience's applause. She felt Erik shift.
"The Opera is your kingdom," the dream's voice said.
Christine knew she was dreaming, yet the power behind it sunk in as she could feel herself slipping away from the images in her mind.
"My home," she said out loud, the dream dissolving completely.
Christine sat up in the bed and looked over to see Raoul, sleeping soundly by her side. She waited to control her heavy breathing before turning her feet outside of the warmth of the covers and slowly creeping out of the bed. The floor creaked to her weight, yet Raoul made no sign of notice. She stepped to a small drawer beside her side of the bed and pulled it open, pushing aside a few letters she's kept from Raoul, some dried rose pedals and an old photograph. Beneath the memorabilia she pulled out a brass key and held it up to the moonlight for examination. Her pale lips turned to a soft smile as she confirmed the key's use and set it on top of the table. Slowly, she turned to the dresser and pulled out a dress that Raoul had bought for her. Christine took her time in dressing to be sure that she maintained complete silence before grabbing her boots and the key on the table.
She opened and closed the door just as cautiously and made sure to put her boots on while sitting on the edge of the stairs, away from the door so as not to be heard. As they were laced, Christine threw her cloak over her shoulders as she walked down the staircase and paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking up and over her shoulder. It was as if she was waiting for somebody to come down the stairs following her, yet no presence emerged. A faint smile crossed her lips.
"I'm going home, Erik," she whispered and as she turned toward the door, she pulled her clock over her head.