A/N I apologise in advance for the soppiness but I am a sop at heart and the pain train hurts too much :(

Christine watched the leaves die and drift from the trees near her window. Raoul would be coming at any moment to whisk her away to a celebratory lunch, at which the news would be announced. A bluejay was ruffling its feathers in the bare branches, chirping cheerfully to itself. Faintly, she could glimpse her own ghostly reflection in the glass. The frost would be coming soon, why was the bird still here? Why hadn't it flown to lands of sunshine and warmth?

An eager series of knocks at the door, and Christine wandered away from the window to pick up her cloak. She pricked herself on the brooch's clasp, and for a moment, she stared at the little bead of crimson flowering on her fingertip. She could not feel the sting. She could not feel anything, except the cold sweat of endless nightmares which plagued her sleep. She pressed the pin against her palm until it drew a small puncture. Blood oozed like spilt wine, staining a narrow, trickling path to her wrist. Nothing. She might as well be made of marble.

She did not know how much time had passed since the night he had laid himself bare before her in fury and sadness. Two weeks, perhaps? Had it really been such a short time? Days bled together, a slow, hazy daze that she simply flitted through with his confession weighing on her heart until it finally suffocated and died within her ribcage. Love, he had loved her. All this time. Every discourse of his eye, every hesitant touch, every stroll home, every time he told her of a past in a distant land that pained him just to amuse her. Her carefully constructed room, the touching thought behind her necklace, escorting her to the ball despite the risk…how had she been so blind?

Fear can turn to love…oh, God.

Even as she still shut her eyes tight against the shock of it all, she felt sick as she found a part of her was not surprised. That part of her had known all along, had understood the longing behind his stare, how he looked upon her as something sacred. Had she known in some secret chasm of herself and simply not cared? No…it was not so simple. But nothing was simple anymore.

Stop thinking of him, stop thinking of him, stop thinking of him, push it down, down, down…

"Lotte! We must go, otherwise we will be late to the manor!" The bright bark of Raoul echoed on the other side of the door. Taking a handkerchief to her hand, Christine smiled as she had learnt to do onstage, and opened the door.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting Raoul." He met her with an annoyed sigh, but then eased his words with a forced optimism.

"Well, I suppose it is alright. We must hurry, come now." His hand took her wrist carelessly and led her out into the hallway and down the steps. Christine vaguely wondered if the handsome Raoul had noticed that his bride had turned completely to stone as he opened the carriage door for her in a flourish. He chattered to her in his amicable way, and she kept her Countess smile, all the while pushing her fingers onto her palm to try to ignite some ounce of sensation beneath the handkerchief. She tried not to blink, lest his dark silhouette sparked against her under-eyelids. When she had to sleep, however, she was unable to escape him. The dreams were almost always the same; she would find him in a pool of blood, a dagger plunged into his chest. Screaming and rushing to him, she would fall to her knees and take his head upon her lap, begging him to live as she clasped her hands over the grotesque wound. His eyes, those luminous yellow spheres, would find hers, piercing into her with their accusation. They would never forgive. Then, she would realise she was the one holding the dagger…

"Lotte, are you listening? On your left will be my uncle. Try not to say anything about your…profession to him. He has opinions about such things."

Christine nodded blankly, lost in the grey sky.

…..

She was silent at the table in the gilded dining room, surrounded by expressionless music and fine china and grand bouquets of greenhouse-grown flowers. The pleasant murmuring of wealth and scandal seemed to fade into one mass, indecipherable noise in Christine's mind. She sat upright with her hands folded in her lap, a transparent gem banded by gold weighing on her finger. She was a painted portrait of a girl who lived once, perhaps, but was long since dead.

"Pray, my dear, what do you see in your future at the opera house?" The greying old man by her side asked as he lifted his eyeglass to study her. A creamy, frosted cake was being brought out to celebrate. Just the sight of it made Christine's stomach heave.

"She will be retiring shortly, to become a Vicomtess of course! Imagine the private concerts you will have, uncle." Raoul interjected, ignoring Christine's incredulous, wide-eyed glare as the old man muttered something or other before burying his moustache in silky vanilla icing, appeased.

As they walked back to the carriage, the Vicomte keeping her on his arm, Christine found her voice out of pure shock and confusion.

"Raoul, you said I could sing if we married." She looked up at his vacantly smiling face with her brow furrowed. He patted her hand, giving her a thoughtful glance.

"I know, Lotte, but really you must have known that I never intended for you to stay at the opera? What wife of a Vicomte is a prima donna? Not to say we won't go! You can attend as many operas as you like and have the best seat in Box Five."

Christine found herself trembling as he led her further down the street. She felt ill, so very ill, a nauseating realisation slithering up her back.

He never meant for me to sing. For all his praise, for all those roses…

A throb, a whisper of anger stirred in her heart. Desperately, she urged to kindle it, to strike it into condemnations for his betrayal. But it was engulfed by her numbness, flickered for only a moment, and died. The future ahead of her felt masked in a fog, and she was sleepwalking into it with every step she took, helpless to stop. Dread was heavy in her stomach. This was the happy ending she had decided.

Are you happy now?

As they passed a bustling café, something slipped its way under the blanket of her dreary hopelessness. Christine's ears suddenly pricked at a strange accent, lilting and with gentle trills. She glanced down at some older men seated at a table outside, scratching their beards over a frayed board that was instantly recognisable.

Nard, they are playing nard!

Something within, stronger this time, made her relinquish Raoul's arm as a lightning-strike of electricity surged through her, hurrying towards them.

"Salam, man Christine hastam." She greeted the rather taken-aback gentlemen excitedly, slightly unaware of what she was doing and hoping her memory of the pronunciation was right. After frowning and muttering softly amongst themselves, they seemed to discern what she had tried to say and smiled gleefully up at her, dark eyes sparkling.

"We have not heard someone use our tongue in so long! Would you like to stay for a match?" One of them gestured to the board, the other pulling up a chair. Christine felt her pulse come back, her body slightly alive and her mind nearly breaking through the heavy paralysis, like sunrays piercing through clouds.

Dear God, thank you for such a small, meaningful blessing!

Just as she was ready to sit, Raoul had caught up and grabbed her arm, flustered and prickling with anger as he crinkled his nose at the two men.

"What in the world are you doing Christine?"

"Playing nard! Oh Raoul, it's a wonderful game, have a seat and I can teach it to you…" But before she could even finish, she was being pulled forcefully back towards the carriage, fingers digging into her arm.

"I don't know what just happened to you and your sensibility, but for God's sake Christine, get in before you embarrass me any further." He snapped gruffly, his usually smiling face balled up into a furious glower. He wasn't even looking at her.

"Raoul, I…"

"Oh, will you just be quiet!"

Christine stopped breathing, her mind still reeling from the Persian men, but they were quickly forgotten as the world seemed to stop on its axis. For a moment, she thought she was going to collapse.

It rang in her head, in her bones, down to her very soul.

"…be quiet…"

Then, the damn burst.

At those words, the powerful fire in her chest, the hearth she had soiled for weeks with her fear and repression, flared up like a match and exploded. She felt like a tidal wave was crashing into a desert, that thrumming violet light flooding her inside until it was roaring into her fingertips. She was set ablaze, and in its wake she found that voice within her, the one who had been screaming at her failure to listen, urging her to understand the truth, she finally could hear its desperate pleas. It was if she had learned to speak its mythic language in half a beat of her electrified, resurrected heart, and oh how it sang in relief! He was there, behind her eyes, an image of flashing swirls of colour she had long denied herself, and Christine could feel his glorious tones hum like a piano string's vibration in her mind…

A hint of a laugh in that dulcet voice, that voice of an angel…"You are forgiven, my dear. Turkish delights, after all, are many a saint's failing…" Amber eyes wandering, a sincere frown, words low and meandering as he wove vivid, ancient places into her dreams. The sight of his full smile. The butterfly-light caress of her neck as he tenderly brushed a curl aside. The pain, the hidden longing behind his violence, the tears as she held his face in her hands. The pride, the adoration…"You were simply wonderful, little songbird..." Pressed against him as he held her in their waltz, his heartbeat so steady and strong even as hers felt as if it belonged to a hummingbird in flight. The hours in quiet company, sliding checkers and surrounded by his music, music so wonderful that it could make seraphs weep and demons shudder, playing for her until every fibre in her being melted. How he drew moonbeams out of her lungs, how he brought her to precipice of divine beauty and let her fly, to fly and never to fall! His dark features alight with deep feeling as he accompanied her home… "You are worth more than any Vicomte."

He had given her a voice, he had sculpted her voice as a heavenly creator moulded life out of clay. Such a gift could not be taken, and she would never give it away.

Erik! It has always been Erik! Do you see now? Do you see how you knew his love, but were so terrified of it that you were lost to its existence? Do you see how you tried to bury that throbbing desire in your blood, do you see how it has always been inside of you, simply dormant, waiting for him to guide it to your heart?

Christine could not breathe properly. Raoul's exclamations blurred into the background as her mind, her body, her heart…was filled by Erik.

Now can you see how your souls are made of the same essence, crafted of the same light, deepened with the same darkness? They are tethered together, different as night and day yet bounded by fire and song.

And yes, her soul too. She had given her soul to him long ago, she knew that now, but it was time to give him all that she was. In return, she would have everything that was him. Her spirit cooed in delight, yearning to escape into the air and find her Angel, to entwine in him until they could never be parted again.

"Christine, what the hell is wrong with you?"

With shaking fingers yet with a clarity she had not known for a long time, Christine eased the ring off her finger and placed it in his palm, closing his hand over it. Raoul stared at her hold in confusion, then realisation, anger and disbelief. She had stolen any words from him as she pressed her lips to his knuckle, not wanting to wait and let her cowardness take hold of her again.

"I am sorry, Raoul. I cannot marry you." She knew that the lost years she had pined for could never be found in this man. They could never be returned, no, but others could be created for the woman she was now, not the girl she once was.

"Christine…" Panic and hurt tore across her dear friend who had brought light to her childhood. He reached out to her, but she stepped out of his grasp, and as he opened his mouth to protest, shock knitting his brow, she put a hand to his lovely face.

"I could not make you happy, Raoul, and you could not make me happy. I now know I could never love you as you want, and I could never live as I want as your wife. I am sorry."

But she could not stay for his reply, his arguments, his persuasions. She had heard of enough of them by now. Instead, she ran, holding up the skirts of her dress as she hurried down the street filled with curiously watching people. Her heart was pounding, oh, she could feel it, a golden, sublime thrill in her limbs. There had been so much agony because of her, but the dagger-wound she had dealt would heal, it had to. She would stitch their lives back together.

Her feet knew the path to the opera house even as her thoughts were lost to the glimmer of Erik's eyes.