A/N: Quick clarification- this is all being written by Christine in her journal. I don't explain that until later, but it's important that you know at the beginning. My writing in this chapter is very "stream-of-conscious"-ish. –Le sigh- I suppose that's what I get for paying attention in English class. Oh well, I guess tenth grade has not been a waste after all!

P.S: I'm planning one last installment after this one…so this isn't the last chapter, just to let everyone know.

P.P.S: Again, thanks for all the reviews! Keep 'em coming!


DREAMS OF BEAUTY


My time runs short…

Already I feel the impending darkness threaten me with its presence, gathering around my eyes and clouding my weak, dimming vision. The end is so different from what I had expected…

Erik once spoke to me about Death, how He is not biased…how you should not try and flee from Him. At the time I had been horrified by his words, shocked into silence by his cold, detached tone, but I had dismissed his tirades as nothing more than the desperate ravings of a desperate man. Death is quite approachable, he had said. There is nothing to fear… I have found myself looking forward to His arrival on a number of occasions…when I am alone…

I understand now, Erik. I have spent sixteen years without the comfort of your touch, and I finally understand.


The memory of that day has stayed with me through all these long years…burning brightly in my thoughts, refusing to retreat into the far corners of my mind. I am forever haunted.

I awoke to an unimaginable coldness. The shivers that consumed me in their blanket of tremulous existence traveled up and down my spine like fingers of ice. In my slumber I had been dead, an irresponsive unconsciousness that held me in the grasps of suspended darkness. And still, in the back of my mind, there was the single glow of a symbolic candle…a flame of pure, untainted love for the man who now slept peacefully beside me…

"Erik," I murmured, placing my hand gently on his shoulder. Almost immediately I recoiled…there was an unnatural coldness to his bare skin, like running my hand over a block of ice. Erik had always been cold, yes, but this… I wrapped my arms around my chest, hugging myself fiercely. "Erik, wake up…"

He did not.

I placed both hands on his chest and shook him violently. "You're scaring me, Erik…" My voice had begun to rise unsteadily. "If this is another one of your cruel experiments, I will never forgive you!" His eyes remained shut, and I knew suddenly that if I did not see those golden irises, I would most certainly go insane. I had to prove to myself that he was only joking…that soon he would sit up, that beautifully alluring smile on his lips, and wrap his arms around me, never letting me go. "Erik!" I pulled his eyelid open with one finger.

Death stared back at me, and I could not even manage a scream.

There was no life in those eyes that had once burned with intensity…there was no life there at all…

I did not know what to do. For the life of me, I did not know what to do. He was not dead…he could not be dead. Erik was immortal…there was too much power in him to be extinguished with the simple stopping of his heart. He was not just flesh and blood, he was not just human…he was above us all. He could not die a mortal's death; I would not let him die a mortal's death! I took him into my arms and rocked back and forth, back and forth, whispering to him wordlessly. I told him that he was an Angel, I told him he was eternal, I told him I loved him.

Back and forth, back and forth…

I would not will the tears to come. Why would I? He was not dead! There was no reason to cry! I heard a chilling giggle escape my lips, a hysteric and desperately insane laugh rise up in my throat like bile. I was being silly! Erik was not dead…no, see? There he was, smiling at me, looking up at me with those beautiful golden eyes…those eyes…

Suddenly I stopped and stared into his face. He was not smiling, and he was not looking at me…his eyes were not even open. His mouth was open just a crack, but when I put my face against his lips, there was no breath to caress my cheek. I inhaled sharply…and smelled Death.

I had never smelled Death before.

And that was when cold, sickening, mind-numbing reality took a hold of me, clutching me its dead, rotting grasp and staring at me with lifeless eyes. My mouth opened in a silent shriek.

My Angel of Music was dead.

My Erik was dead.

No!

I beat against his chest with my tiny fists, the tears finally escaping my eyes in defeat of my relinquished, unfounded hope. No! No! "No!" I had not even awakened! Had Death come that swiftly for him, sweeping him off into the blackness of the night without even a word or a whisper? My hands grew numb as I pounded relentlessly on him, tears streaming down my cheeks, my eyes wide and wild in matchless, wordless grief.

"How dare you leave me? You said you loved me…but you lied to me! Why did you lie?" The cries were choked, one by one escaping my lips as I clung to his cold, lifeless arm. "Why, Erik? Why? What did I do wrong?" The hushed screams were taking their toll on me…silently I curled up against him, a tiny huddled form shivering against a frozen Angel. I pressed my mouth to his arm, the icy coldness wilting all feeling in my lips. Again and again I kissed him, wishing that perhaps somehow I could breath life back into his soul.

"Please, God, bring him back to me and I promise to be good forever…"

I whispered the pleading prayer against his skin over and over, clinging to his arm and to the despondent, despairing hope that maybe someone would care enough to listen…

I have found that you were right after all, Erik… Tragic endings are inevitable. No one, least of all me, is worthy of reaching the last line of those beautifully simple fairy tales.

There is no such thing as 'happily ever after.'

Gingerly I slipped my hand inside his, entwining my fingers with his limp, motionless ones. And as I did so, I felt something buried in his grasp…something familiar…

I sat up, the wrinkled piece of paper in my trembling hand. The tears were frozen on my cheeks, my eyes round and pale as the moon as I read over the words. I recognized them immediately…Erik had been so fond of Aïda, you see. We must have sung it a hundred times together, our duet flawless and pure. He had been especially drawn to the young heroine of the story, the girl who chose death over a life without love…

My heart foreseeing your condemnation, into this tomb I made my way by stealth, and here, far from every human gaze, in your arms I wished to die.

I do not know how long I sat there beside him, reading and rereading the line, my lips moving along with the words. The last of my tears remained unshed, and after a moment, I leaned down towards his face, my hand gently stroking his withered skin with unspoken tenderness. I placed two light kisses on each closed eyelid; then, slowly, I pressed my lips to his, my eyes fluttering shut as I savored what I knew would be our final kiss.

In your arms I wished to die…

For a moment I thought I saw him smile in the darkness.


He had wished to be forgotten…

Sometimes memories are all we have to live on.

But other times, they are not.

I see him in every waking moment, and it is slowly killing me as assuredly as it fills my heart with bittersweet joy. There is no doubt in my mind that the beautiful irony in my son's existence was in some way an answer to the prayer I so desperately whispered the day after his conception. It would seem that God does indeed work in mysterious ways…

Charles grows to be more and more like his father with every passing day. The music that pours from a soul destined for greatness brings tears to my eyes, and I hide my face from my dear Raoul at every concert. Sometimes I must even excuse myself before he is finished playing… The similarities between them have been a beautifully chilling paradox of torture and release.

He has grown up happily as the son of a Vicomte for sixteen years. There is no suspicion in his eyes when he calls Raoul 'father,' for there has never been any reason to doubt his lineage. But my loving, devoted husband… Matters are quite different with him.

I have tried to convince myself that he does not know…I have told my doubting thoughts that he remains ignorant. And yet my mind's pleadings are shattered every time he meets my eyes with that distant, pondering expression. He knows, and there is nothing I can do about it.

To say my life has been empty and meaningless would be to speak an untruth. I have known countless joys, and I have enjoyed many a glorious day, ending with long, peaceful, dreamless nights. Charles has held Raoul and I together…Charles, who could have been our destruction, is our common ground. I love them both, and I have known contentment.

But my soul grows weak, my spirit, forever longing.

I will welcome the inevitable with open arms.

Somewhere in my mind, I hear the soft, gentle whisper of his voice, and my lips curl upwards slightly, eyes closed. He had such glorious music… My smile falters a bit as a distinct memory floats through my thoughts, much like a shadow drifts aimlessly through the darkness.


"Madame…"

It had been a warm day, colorful and bright in its beauty. Charles had just finished a recital, and I watched as Raoul congratulated him awkwardly. I remained in my seat, feeling the gentle spring breeze caress my cheek. 'Christine…'

"Madame?"

I looked up to see a woman in a wheelchair sitting beside me, staring at me with an intensity that caught my attention and held me in its grasp. She must have been in her eighties, perhaps even in her nineties. In her lap she held a small handkerchief, and she pressed it to her mouth from time to time, hands trembling. Pure, snow white hair fell in cascades around an emaciated, mouse-like face, and her lips were pressed into a tremulous line.

"Yes?" I said softly.

She paused, glancing at my son with wide eyes. "The boy who just played…you are his mother?" she asked. I was taken aback by the strength of her voice… I had fully expected to have to lean in close to her face in order to hear what it was that she was saying.

"Yes, I am Christine de Chagny." I held out my hand lightly, and she took it, her fingers cold yet her grip surprisingly firm.

"My name is Marie Perrault." The old woman sat back against her wheelchair, looking once again in the direction of my family. She pointed to Raoul with a pale, ghostly finger, glancing at me from over her thin, skeletal shoulder. "And he is the boy's father?"

"That is my husband, Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny."

"…His father?"

I blinked, finding I still could not hide my slight hesitation before replying to that question. "Yes, his father."

The old woman sighed, her gaze drawn back to Charles. "Your son is a stunning musician," she murmured, not meeting my eyes. "That requiem he played…a particular triumph. I could have sworn I had heard it before…" My brow furrowed, and she caught it out of the corner of her eye. "It's remarkably similar to a version I heard many, many years ago…written by the greatest composer in the world." She laughed, but the sound was filled with an incurable sadness. "Would you believe he was only seven when he wrote it? Only seven…" For a moment I had disappeared in her mind, for I could see that she was lost in her own memories, thinking back to a time before us.

"Seven?" I repeated hesitantly, hoping to bring her back to the present. "That is incredible…"

She smiled sorrowfully. "He was a genius, Madame. A composer, an architect, a magician…all before the age of eight. And a ventriloquist, too, Madame! Oh, he gave Madeleine quite a fright on a number of occasions…" She continued speaking, again being swallowed up by her thoughts.

I stared at her. Madeleine… Where had I heard that name before? Madeleine…Madeleine…

"Madeleine…" My eyes flew open. "Erik!" The old woman looked up at me sharply.

"What did you say?" she whispered.

"You were talking about Erik! His mother…his mother's name was Madeleine…" I watched as Marie pressed the handkerchief to her lips, eyes closed. "He was the composer of whom you spoke…"

"Erik…" she murmured softly. "Yes. Erik… There will never be another person like Erik, Madame. How is it that you know him?" I stared fixedly at my hands, inhaling deeply. I opened my mouth to speak, but the old woman cut me off. "The boy is an exact image of Erik's father, Charles. Strange…a strange coincidence, Madame." She smiled softly, eyes fixed on my son. I looked up at Charles, his eyes bright and lively in the sunlight. I remembered seeing those eyes somewhere else… I turned back to Marie Perrault, but she had disappeared. I caught a last glimpse of her as she wheeled herself through the crowd of music-hungry viewers. I returned my gaze to Charles, and he waved congenially at me. I could only manage a light nod, too consumed in my own thoughts to acknowledge…


He still manages to haunt me…even now, after all these years.

My black leather journal lays in my lap, feeling twice as burdensome against my legs as it really is. I stare at my ashen fingers, running my left hand over my right absently. Sometimes I wonder if Erik would even recognize me now…I have changed so much…

Sixteen years ago, I asked Erik to take me with him. I had begged and pleaded, wishing to be whisked away from a world of spinning idleness and unappreciated beauty. He had come for me then, bringing me down into his kingdom of music. Perhaps he would listen once more…

I am losing the strength to write. This illness has taken me apart, piece by piece, until I have been reduced to nothing but a mere shadow of what I once was. I long for an Angel to come sweep me off my feet and carry me to the heaven that I have so desperately desired. I wish-