Disclaimer: I don't own Sweden or Norway okay? I don't own the Paris Opera House, and I don't own The Phantom of the Opera. Still, don't steal it, okay? ;)

This is partially based on the Leroux novel and the ALW stage-production.

Was listening to my Phantom soundtrack, and was inspired by the line "always has her head in the clouds, I'm afraid."

Enjoy.



--


"Real life is black and white
And heroes don't fly
Sometimes they cry."
~"Happy Endings," Bombay Dreams



"Happy Endings"
by The Phantom Parisienne


--


Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl named Christine. She had lovely dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. Christine had always liked fairy-tales. She also liked day-dreams. It was a plain and simple fact: she loved them. For what reason, she did not know: it might have been that her early childhood memories were filled with her father taking her on her knee, a new story fresh on his lips, or maybe that she had always believed in them (and sometimes not realised that they were only fiction!). Whatever the instinctive adoration had been provoked by, it was strong, and Christine liked fairy-tales.


When old Daaé passed, she could not help but cling to the stories: they were the only things she possessed to remember him by. Naïve and completely alone, she depended on the stories of the korrigans, and the Angel of Music, and the enchanted castles, and sleeping princesses, and gallant knights in shining armour, and the goblins. They were just as real and just as close to Christine as her hairbrush (which certainly got a lot of use, as her curls were thick, dark and wild). She began to fancy herself a Princess; a Princess all-alone in the world, with nothing to cling to but the memory of her father, the benevolent King.


So Christine chased after fantasy and fantasy, the effort of believing in magic when no-one else did draining her of her soul and spirit.


The Princess possessed a beautiful voice, so she searched for opera-houses where she could earn her keep.


She travelled throughout Europe, visiting the kingdoms of Italy, Germany, and even England. None of kingdoms suited her: Italy was too arrogant, Germany too big, and England too grey and rainy, so she kept travelling.


Voice weak, eyes dull, she was eventually brought to the Paris Opéra House (which really looked more like an angel's palace to her than anything else) in France. That's where her own dark fairy-tale really began...


The Opéra-folk did their best to take her in: she was the travelling Princess, arriving from her war-ravished kingdom of Sweden. The Princess took shelter in the neighbouring kingdom of the Opéra, and so was brought to the attention of the mysterious King. Her soulless voice was making little improvement in the chorus, and the King was not fond of seeing the Princess, a woman (or was she still an innocent little girl?) who was capable of far more, in the back-row of the chorus.


The King, curious, began to watch the Princess from behind her chamber's mirror. The mirror had a passageway that connected to his beautiful underground palace. He was an honourable man, and did not try to harm the Princess or frighten her. Before very long, the King found himself falling in love!


Unable to resist any longer, the Ruler of the Opéra began to speak to the lovely Christine.


"Child, why do you cry?" he asked tenderly, for he had a beautiful voice, and its caring, nuturing tones reminded Christine of her own dear father.


Scared though she was, she looked around the room, determined to find the haunting voice. "What was that? Who is there?"


The King was no fool. He had often heard Christine singing her childhood ditties, and knew full well what the Princess wanted to hear. "I'm the Angel of Music, of course! Do you not even know the tones of your Angel?"


"Angel! It is you! Father promised that you would come! Oh!"


"And your father promised that I would give you music lessons."


"You will? Angel, thank you..." She could say no more.


The Princess did not know the true identity of the Angel. Though it pained him to see her putting blind trust in nothing but a voice and to decieve her so, he knew that she would be terrified of him if she were to know his identity: for his subjects often spoke of him badly, for he was prone to losing his temper and had a terrible, terrible secret that necessitated a black silken mask on his face that allowed only his glowing yellow eyes to show through.


The King had devoted most of his life to music, and took a personal interest in the Princess's well-being. They were a perfectly matched pair: almost destined for one another. The Princess was rising in the ranks of the chorus, and the King was extraordinarily proud of her progress. When she spoke to him, she could almost hear his smile.


For a short period of time, everything was tranquil. The Princess's favourite handmaiden and closest friend, Meg Giry, an aspiring dancer, was her close confidante during the peaceful time. They shared many a laugh at the resident prima donna, a haughty lady called La Carlotta. Everything seemed to be perfect for Christine: her friend, Meg, her quiet job, and her Angel.


However, when the Princess's old childhood companion, Viscount Raoul de Chagny, put in his appearance, things turned topsy-turvy. The Angel-King was jealous, of course, because the Viscount began to shower the Princess with flowers and pretty words. So, the Ruler of the grand Opéra took Christine to his underground palace through the fated mirror through which he often watched her.


The road to the palace was dark, long, and damp. Christine, being the virtuous, innocent girl she was, was naturally frightened. The King kept silent for most of their journey, which crossed a blue lake and spiralled down five levels of catacombs.


And in the time the Princess spent with the Angel, she found out his terrible, awful secret. This secret prevented her from loving him fully. The poor Princess pitied the weeping musician, but could not bring herself to love him: she was too young and pure to understand his lust and passion.


When the King returned her to the upper-world, he made her swear that she would wear a plain gold ring on her left ring-finger. If she removed it, he would no longer protect her.


Time flowed smoothly: a masquerade ball passed (and oh! what a masquerade it was!), the King, furious, caused the enormous chandelier in the main theatre to crash to the ground, and the Angel-King had composed a grand opera. Don Juan Triumphant, he called it. The King, though ugly, was musically gifted and a wonderful composer.


The Princess, of course, didn't want anything to do with the King's opera. She was frightened of its strange, dark power. Seeking solace, she fled to Perros-Guirrec, the burial place of her father, Daddy Daaé.


Christine knelt at his grave.


Oh, papa, I've come so far, and met the Angel... but he lied! You lied! There isn't any Angel. It was only a man playing a trick. I'm sorry, Papa, I tried to become what you wanted me to become: a wonderful singer to astonish Paris! I tried, I'm sorry...


A single tear rolled down the Princess's cheek. She kept her faith in her child-stories... a single tear almost always brought back a person from the dead, didn't it? She half-expected her Father to appear from nowhere, his musical aura about him, a tune in hand.


Poor Christine. The only one who appeared was the Angel. He had a musical aura, and a tune in hand, but he wasn't the one she was expecting...


One Viscount and two weeks later, she found herself once again at the Opéra house. She was fated to perform in the cursed opera, Don Juan Triumphant.


One dead tenor and two minutes into the "Point of No Return" scene of the opera, Christine realised that the man playing Don Juan was not the tenor. It was not Ubaldo Piangi (who lay conveniently dead behind a curtain). It was most certainly not the way it should have been. It was the King, once again deceiving her.


Oh, Angel, why must you do this? It is far too complicated... why can't we have a happy ending like the Princess and the Prince in the book of fairy-tales? It wasn't meant to be like this. Something's gone wrong.


And before he knew what he was doing, the poor King declared his love in a musical fashion before a full house. Blinded by confusion and the heat of the moment, she ripped off his mask, once again exposing his deformed features... but this time, to the entire theatre.


The ladies in the audience gasped. The Princess and King hurried offstage, and chaos ensued. The curtain where the dead tenor lay was lifted, poor Meg Giry screeched, and Mme. Giry, Meg's ballet-mistress mother, began to lead the Viscount to the King's underground palace.


"Tell me what I must do, Madame," he asked, quietly. He would do anything to save his Princess now.


"You must go to the hidden lake, and swim across it. The ghost"—for such was the name for the Ruler from his subjects—"will have already taken the boat. Be very careful, and keep your hand at the level of your eyes. He is very dangerous, monsieur." The fairy-tale was perfectly French, and its climax was unfolding right before Christine's eyes.


~


Christine looked into the mirror. She was wearing an exquisite wedding-gown that the King had requested her to put on, but the deep circles underneath her dull eyes and the pale complexion did not at all fit the description of a happy bride on her wedding day.


You wished for this, Christine! What you wanted was a story. A good one that you could tell your children, like Papa told you the story of Little Lotte and the Angel of Music. If there had been an ounce of truth in that story, it would probably have been just as dark and scary as this... I suppose that when people wish for a story to become true, they wish for a story with flaws and minor details, too... You wished for too much.


Of course, Christine didn't really think that at all, because her mind was too frenzied and panicked to think that clearly.


Do I really love him? It's so hard to tell... I would love him if I did not have such overwhelming pity for him. I pity his aloneness, I pity his ugliness, I pity his loss of human contact... If this is a story, where's the happy ending?


~


Raoul valiantly climbed out of the lake, foolishly not keeping his hand raised to the level of his eyes. The ballet-mistress had told him to be wary, and he hadn't exactly done that.


He was surprised when a noose caught him around the neck.


"Oh! Christine!" he spluttered.


"'Oh! Christine!' Ha, ha!" a man mocked from the shadows. "You have come so far for the woman you love, Monsieur le Vicomte! Christine!"


"Please, let him go!" she begged as she stepped forward, looking at Raoul with tears in her eyes.


It isn't supposed to end like this!


"Make your choice, my love!" The King was pained to see the Princess in such sorrow. "Stay with me, and he will be free! Choose to leave, and the Viscount will no longer matter..."


No, no, no... Papa, can't you see? Where are you when I need you? Why aren't you watching and keeping me safe? Where's the Angel...?


Her mind raced.


"Christine!"


"Christine!"


They cried out her name in unison. Almost in a trance, Christine approached the Angel, and their lips touched.


How perfect it would all be if I could call this a happy ending...


It truly was a kiss of pure love; unfortunately it was only to last for a few precious seconds. The candles flickered... the King's subjects were coming... The Angel, stunned, snapped his eyes open.


"Christine, Christine..."


The poor Viscount looked on in wonder. Perhaps she really did love the frightening man! Perhaps it was so deep a love that even they could not realise it!


The mob's tumultuous noise echoed through the palace as the King released the Viscount, who immediately tumbled to the ground, taking deep breaths.


"Go! Christine, go! Take her and go!" The poor King, drained and hopelessly in love, crumpled against his throne, which was draped in black velvet.


Christine flitted between the Viscount and the fallen Angel, wringing her hands. Two men she loved, both in different ways.


"Go! Go now, leave me!" he cried.


"Good-bye," she whispered before she and the Viscount disappeared.


~


The Princess and her Viscount eventually returned to the beautiful lakes of Scandinavia, and found a small cottage in Norway. They never forgot the Opera ghost, or the dark controversy that caused them to leave the hustle and bustle of Paris.


Christine didn't ever find herself comfortable in her new home, beautiful and serene as it was. Something was missing: it was her music. She never sang any more, and was just as much the wilting flower she had been when her father died. Christine didn't forget the kiss she shared with the king, for it was pure and romantic. Though the Viscount was a loyal, good husband, she was lonely and felt as though she hadn't taken the proper route: hadn't taken her chance on the deformed Angel.


I wonder if this is a happy ending. I suppose I'll never know. I only wish that I had another chance!


Even though she her story ended, she never lost her love for fantasy. Christine liked fairy-tales, and Christine liked to day-dream.

~

Always has her head in the clouds, I'm afraid!