Horary for chapter 4! I normally don't update this quick, but seeing as how I will be leaving in just two weeks I want to get as much out as possible.
FIRST….THINGS….FIRST….
THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO SO MUCH FOR ALL YOUR WONDERFUL REVIEWS! They really mean so much to me and keep me motivated to write. I just want to thank each and every person a thousand times over for reviewing and for your suggestions, comments and critisim. I know a lot better where I need to improve and it is all because of you guys. Thank you all so much. Just imagine how wonderful it felt coming home from a royally crappy day at school with 8 shining, brand spanking new reviews.
I feel I am obligated to say this…This story is based on the original novel of Gaston Leroux. Only elements of the musical, movie(s) and Kay are being used. This has nothing to do with Kay's novel, "Phantom", nor will it share Erik's past as seen through the eyes of Kay or her version of Erik and Christine's relationship. I personally found that she completely tore and ripped apart Erik's love for Christine and degraded his love to an almost incestuous degree. The main reason I am using her version of the Persian, Nadir, is because he is in general the most accepted interpretation of the original character of Leroux. Everything else IS based on what Gaston Leroux wrote. The ONLY SINGLE element that I am changing is Christine's appearance: in the book she has blonde hair and blue eyes, in my version she has brown hair and blue eyes. I always just imagined her as a brunette instead of a blonde, even when I read the book. Other than that, everything is based purely on Leroux. I only add Kay to the disclaimer because I love her interpretation of Erik's cat so I am keeping her name the same.
With that said…
Disclaimer: Don't own anything…blahhblahh…don't sue…blahhblahh…you won't get jack squat….blahhblahh.
IT'S THE RETURN OF NADIR! Yay, three cheers for our favorite Nadir Khan.
Enjoy…
MXIXVIXIXM
Crowds of people from all rangers in life, rich and poor, exquisite and plain, complex and simple began to pour around the Opera Populaire. It was just half an hour before the curtain rose on their first performance since the great tragedy. Above in the sky, even the stars seemed to shine upon the grand re-opening of the Populaire. Christine had insisted that she and Raoul leave early in order to assure their seat in quick order. She was extremely happy she did; every inch of the gargantuan building was swamped full of people. Christine could hardly remember a time when she was more excited and anxious since her marriage to Raoul. Living in the high French Aristocratic society was extremely dull and boring, having the same idle gossip day after day or arguing about politics. It had been a good two years since she last felt any true excitement at all and Christine was not about to loose her chance.
In the flocks of people, Christine quickly recognized many of them from her previous life before Raoul. Madam Giry, sporting her usual inky black hair in a bonnet and wearing a dark dress, was seen up front talking to Monsieurs deCour and Chapman. She only caught a bit of their conversation which revealed that Meg had become the Prima Ballerina at the Populaire since its re-opening. Christine made a mental note to keep a dagger sharp eye for her best friend. Firmin and Andre were present as well, dressed in their usual suits of black silk with smug expressions that only money would bring. Even La Carlotta was present, seated opposite of Christine and Raoul in Box 2; her heavy Spanish accent was especially predominant in the flocks of French speaking folk. From their seat in Box 5, Christine could see Linette and her mother, a beautiful woman with thick blonde locks and vivid blue eyes, from across the room. Linette looked positively ecstatic and radiant. Mrs. DeCour wore an expression of sour grapes and looked positively appalled that her daughter took any pleasure in the theatre. Christine figured it was the usual fourteen year old inquisition and fascination with all the glittery costumes and overbearing amounts of make-up since the young child was clearly un-musically inclined.
Raoul let his hands caress his wife's shoulders lovingly. With an apology Raoul excused himself and left without a word leaving a puzzle Christine in his wake.
With the eye of a hawk, Raoul hastily gathered which two gentlemen it had been who purchased the opera house. Percival DeCour and Audrey Chapman were deeply in conversation when they heard the "Ah-hem" from the Vicomte de Chagny behind. Both men exchanged respectable greetings. "I really must thank you gentlemen for allowing my wife and me such fine seats," Raoul said kindly.
"The honor is all ours Messier de Chagny. You can right imagine the shock we received when your lovely wife came to our doorstep asking for tickets," Percival said.
"Even more was the honor that the Countess de Chagny was previously La Daae. Our shock was all the more as was the privilege," Audrey finished, taking a sip of burgundy wine that he held in his grasp. His pale checks were clearly tinted red from a drunken stupor. Raoul said nothing, but resisted the urge to laugh out loud. Percival also held a wine glass in his hand, but Raoul reconciled the light wine he was drinking, unlike his associate. Audrey blinked stupidly and asked under his breath, "is it really true all the rumors of an Opera Ghost?" Raoul had to strain his ears to hear the man's words.
"Audrey! I should think that you, of all people, would surely not believe all that senseless—as the English would say—codswallop," Percival snapped at his friend. Raoul mind jumped at the mention of that vile creature. If the new owners had not heard of him that surely the demon of the opera would be dead. Raoul knew that it was not in the nature of a faceless, de-formed madman to allow another man to hold complete control over his precious Opera House. A wave of relief washed over him; Christine would be safe as long as that bitter abomination of the human race was dead, as it seemed he indeed was.
"I should say not my good gentlemen," Raoul lied, keeping in good appeal to Percival DeCour. After all, it would be miraculously idiot sounding if he confirmed the words of a drunk. "I was present at the time of the so-called 'Phantom's ' reign. It turned out to be nothing but a crazed madman who was tried and convicted of his hideous deeds," he finished with a smug expression. He could never say the truth in front of his Christine about that thing, but in the presence of these two men, one of them drunk none-the-less, Raoul had a rare freedom he ever found in Christine. She would hear nothing foul against Erik, Raoul thought bitterly. It pained Raoul to think that even now, a ghost of a dead fool could sway and pollute her mind so. Raoul could feel his blood beginning to boil and calmed himself down by reminding himself that Christine had chosen him. She had chosen the best man; he could provide for her, love her and be there for her…something that a deranged crazy fool could ever begin to fathom. Taking note of the time, Raoul took his leave of the two men before him and returned to Christine.
"Are you alright?" Christine asked in earnest, taking note of his facial expression.
"Do not worry yourself," Raoul responded, seating himself next to his wife. Christine had a sneaking suspicion of what Raoul had done, but she kept it to herself. There was no fruit to be produced from inquiring on foolish impulse. A few minutes of silence later, the lights dimmed slightly signifying the beginning of the opera.
Christine watched eagerly as her favorite childhood opera was being preformed out yet again. It was very clear the short amount of time it had taken to put together the show as well as the lack of experienced talent. The dancers were all very young, some not older than thirteen, and clearly very inexperienced. When Christine trained as a ballet dancer, Madame Giry would allow no girl on stage that had trained for less than two years; even then your chances of being bathed in the bright sunlight of a Prima Ballerina were non existent. Christine bit back her strong urge to laugh as two of the younger dancers stumbled around clumsily; clearly it was their first performance on stage. Many of the singers were no better. The leading Soprano was all too reminiscent of La Carlotta, strutting about the stage while screeching notes high up into the atmosphere. Supporting the dismally failing Soprano was a small flock of alto and tinner Chorus. Together they sang horribly out of tune with the alto going flat and tinner going sharp, and the baritone seemingly non-existent. Christine's mind immediately went to Erik. He would have immediately caused some sort of an uproar the instant the first strained screech was uttered. She could not help but smile at the many instances Erik had delayed rehearsal due to Carlotta's egotistic nature, causing everyone to become red in the face and frustrated. But at the time she had not known it was Erik, and blamed it on the figurative "Opera Ghost". A frown glazed her face at the thought of her first encounter with Erik.
/Flashback/
Christine groaned in agony at the stiffness of her legs. Rehearsal had lasted a grueling nine hours in which she had been forced to dance much more strenuously than she had in all her previous years at the Populaire. The owners, MM. Debienne and Poligny had decided it was due time for another production of the infamously famous 'Hannibal'. Naturally Carlotta had been given the lead roll, only adding to her insatiable lust for the limelight. It was Christine's first time one the stage as a ballet dancer. At seventeen years of age she would finally be getting her debut on the stage. Naturally her best friend in the world, Meg Giry, would be with her. Meg had seen the stage only once previous and her talent was far superior to Christine. Often times at night, christen would yearn to have her best friend's God-given talent on her tip toes dancing gracefully around like a swan; unlike herself, Christine saw herself waddling around like a goose in comparison to Meg. But at the current moment, Christine had not the will to even waddle around; her legs ached from practice.
As per norm, the rehearsal had started like any other—everyone was mildly jubilant at the approach of yet another opera to perform and the young Chorus and Ballet girls were giddy with excitement. Christine restrained herself as much as possible so as not to seem so juvenile but found it more difficult to do than vow. But the atmosphere soon clouded over as La Carlotta strutted about singing her heart out shrilly. Meg and Christine crumpled their noses in disgust as Carlotta sang from low baritone to top soprano horribly out of key. However not even the maestro had the nerve to correct the fierce Spanish diva, or else face another of her temper tantrums. Ignoring Carlotta's shrills; Christine danced to her best ability given her nervousness. She was thankful most of her routine was on the opposite side of the stage as Carlotta and near Meg. Given her young years and relatively short experience, she preformed to her best ability which was good enough to earn pleasing approval from both Madam Giry and MM. Debienne and Poligny. By the third hour, Christine cursed her apparent lack of stage experience and physical endurance. Madam Giry had not demanded much physically from her girls, as most of them were clearly not ready for stage performance. The muscles in her legs that Christine had spent many years working on failed her dismally after just three hours of constant practice. At the fourth hour, Christine wanted to cry to the heavens for mercy but her pride kept her tongue still. Her calves and thighs burned in exhaustion by half pass the fourth hour. Even then she did not ask for a break. Just gazing at the older and more refined girls sent a surge of fresh determination to her mind. Daring a glance every so often at Meg, even Christine could tell that even her best friend was feeling the affects of the constant moving. Christine breathed a sigh of relief and thanks when the maestro called for a break.
One of the plumper maids brought forth large drinks of water for everyone on stage. Christine took her water eagerly and drank every drop within minutes. Not caring for the hard surface, Christine took a much needed seat of rest. Soon she was joined by Meg, whose checks were pink from fatigue. Sensing her friend's apprehension Meg said, "Do not fret Christine. You are doing well," she comforted. Christine smiled sincerely at her friend.
"Thank you Meg," Christine responded. "You dance wonderfully Meg".
"Flattery is not necessary in our friendship," Meg said. "You know as well as I do that I am an amateur in the stage life of a Prima. Surely my clumsy bumbling is quite apparent," she finished taking a swig from her water.
"Modesty had never been your strong suite Meg. Your skill far surpasses mine as it doses the other ballerinas. You dance like a swan out there," Christine comforted.
"No my dear friend, I must say modesty has never been her strong suite," Meg pointed towards Carlotta who was busy telling off some of the singers that their voices were too loud and covered up her diva voice. Christine laughed heartily with Meg. It was too true, compared to Carlotta both were absolute masters of modesty.
With just the mere nod of the conductor, everyone on stage found themselves back in form. The temporary break allowed Christine the much needed rest she desired. No longer did her legs ache so profusely, but the familiar dull pain did not leave them. Yet she did not allow a little ache dictate her yearning for the stage. Amidst all the twirling of skirts and swishing of legs Christine wondered if her father was looking down upon her from heaven. What would he say if he could see his daughter now, dancing among the dozens of ballerinas instead of singing as he had originally hoped. She knew that her father would always love and support her, no matter her choice irrelevant if it was singing or dancing, but Christine knew that her father had once dreamed of seeing his only daughter was a Prima Donna of the opera world. However ever since his death, Christine had lost her voice and inspiration to go forward. Her father had been her everything, teaching her music with all his heart and soul, playing beautifully to her on his enchanted violin, wooing and cooing his daughter into the world lf music. Papa Daae had been her everything, her muse for inspiration and reason for singing. She would sing only for her father who would look at his daughter in gleaming admiration and love, and her mother whose soul was with the chorus of angels in Heaven.
As practice for the first two acts in Hannibal proceeded, Christine quickly found herself away from her comfort zone. In the middle of the stage Carlotta strutted to and fro singing like a cock at the first sight of the sun and Christine found her steps circling around the Spanish diva while Meg danced with one of the young ballet men in false love and desire. Christine had always heard from the Chorus girls and senior ballet dancers that it was pure torture to be dancing anywhere in the vicinity of La Carlotta and her childishly short ego fuse. Shortly into her spherical movements, Carlotta yelled at the Maestro to halt. With a finely polished nail she shrieked at Christine, "You…" in her thick accent which blended together poorly with French… "You are too tall! The crowd would have to half giraffe if they are to see over your enlarged head," Carlotta said with the expression of a viper. Christine fell short of breath, what was she to say? In truth, Carlotta was much taller than her mere 5'5" and petite frame. Why was she saying this? Was it to intimidate her? Well if it is, she is doing a fine job of it, Christine thought bitterly as blood rushed to her checks. "What is it? Is your pretty little face too impudent to say anything," Carlotta accused arrogantly.
"Please Mademoiselle, Christine has no control over what path her routine takes her," Meg said out from the corners pleading with the older woman.
"Silence!" Carlotta said, for none dared to take a firm foot against her tantrums. "Since stupidity has seemed to bombard this little girl's tongue, may I make the suggestion to take her out?" Carlotta added in the direction of the conductor who had more of a say in the theatrical matters than most others especially when dealing with the diva.
With his bushy eyebrows and tuffs of grey hair sticking out in all directions the maestro said nothing. Christine could do nothing but stare at the ground in mortification. What had she done to deserve Carlotta's malice? Carlotta smirked in triumph, knowing she had made her selfishly juvenile point—she wanted all of the audience's attention to be upon her and none made a point of argument. Christine was about to turn her heel and leave when a stern voice came from behind her. "This performance has been demonstrated many times in the past in the exact same dance routine. I see no reason to change it, unless the great La Carlotta is suggesting that the original composer was half mad and half drunk while he wrote it. For surely who would ever want even the merest instant of limelight taken away from the leading soprano. But of course, that could easily be remedied," said the stern notes of Madame Giry who had emerged from behind the stage curtain. Even with her elder age and inky black hair strewn in her usual bonnet, Madame Giry held the most authority in the Opera Populaire. None would dare to challenge her, not even La Carlotta. Her aged black eyes flashed dangerously at everyone on stage, daring them to rebel against her words. "If Mademoiselle Carlotta wishes to retain her role and title than I suggest she keep her mouth closed about the matter," the elderly woman spoke.
"Y-yes of course Madame," Carlotta said, not daring to spark Madame Giry's rage. Even among the lead sopranos the rumor that Madame Giry conspired with the infamous 'Opera Ghost' was clearly evident. No one would invoke Madame Giry's foul disposition out of fear that she would sick the Opera Ghost on the poor fool soul. The woman nodded and retreated back to her normal shadows that matched the dark black of her hair.
Christine swelled with thanks and newly found compassion for Madame Giry who had seemed to disappear in the shadows as soon as she came. Carlotta snuck a disdainful glance at the young ballet dancer but wisely said nothing. For the remainder of the day, stopping only for lunch, rehearsal continued with little interruption. By the time the sun had fallen beneath the horizon, the maestro was finally pleased with the progress the cast had made on their parts. He assigned everyone to work diligently at their roles and bid everyone goodnight.
Christine gladly made her way up to her dormitory. Slowly she trudged on her sore feet up the stairs to her room which she shared with Meg and another dancer called Fleur, each step took as much if not more energy than the last. A wave of relief washed over Christine as she reached the familiar dormitory that smelled of perfumed jasmine, for it was Fleur's favorite scent. Fleur was 19 and one of leading Prima Ballerinas; she always insisted on smelling fresh and lively. Gladly Christine striped herself, from behind her dressing screen, of her costume and let a simple cotton nightgown caress her young curves. Christine always thought of herself as small and slightly skinny for her age. As she emerged from behind the screen, she found that both Meg and Fleur were deeply immersed in blissful slumber. Christine smiled; she so wanted to join them and succumb to the cries of her bed sheets but she had something else she needed to do first. Slipping her feet into a pair of slippers, Christine snuck out from her room. Aching feet could always wait an additional five minutes for rest, paying respect to her father always held her first priority. Aching feet would have to just wait.
Slowly she crept though the deserted corridors cautiously so as to avoid any unwanted followers. She knew the back ballet dormitories like the palm of her hand and even though the lighting was poor, Christine held a perfect sense of direction. She soon found herself in a dark room with a large mahogany door and brass handle. In the center of the room was a small candleholder with three limbs extending skyward. Upon the middle limb was a slightly burnt candle with the darkened wick that stood out vividly against the white wax. Christine drew forth a match from the pocket of her nightgown and struck it against the wooden floor. A light sprang forth from the tip and she spread it to the candle wick. Soon her face was bathed in faint candlelight as she blew out the match. Putting together her palms, Christine prayed for her father's spirit, love and guidance.
"Papa," she began slowly, "I pray you are pleased for my fate. I have been chosen to perform in the new production of Hannibal. I cannot be more pleased. I can only pray that you are," Christine paused thinking of what to say next. "Even in death you guide me to do my best. Papa, I hope you can forgive my choice in the ballet and not in the Chorus as you wished. My voice has grown cold in your absence, you were—no you are everything to me. Without you I cannot muster the will to sing as I once did. It was only you who inspired it in me. I pray you forgive my foolishness; I am just a silly daughter of a great musician. I know you promised that I would be protected by an Angel of Music, but my eyes search out blindly. Please forgive me Papa. I am always waiting for the Angel of Music, please Papa, please send me something that you are well and not disappointed in your daughter who pays love and tribute to you every eve," Christine pleaded to her father. Papa Daae had meant more to her than everything on Earth. Madame Giry may have raised her as a daughter in the arts of dance, but it had been him who instilled the love of music and gift. Christine wept openly for her lost father. First her mother was called to leave the Earthly realm and then her father. She would often wonder what cruel joke was being played when the old perished before their daughter had reached the age of 10. Why did he have to leave? Why? Out of grief and love, Christine began singing her favorite song from Lazarus Resurrected. She knew her voice was not as it once was, but didn't care. Papa Daae had cherished even the screaming wails of Christine as a baby, exclaiming that she would one day grow up to be the greatest diva who ever lived.
After several minutes of tears and tunes, Christine decided it was in her better judgment to leave. There was no doubt that practice tomorrow would be just as strenuous and her father would not wish to her to over exert herself, and pass out of fatigue during the middle of rehearsal. Although there was no doubt that Carlotta would take great glee in it. "Child, be at ease. Do not let your face be marred by this lingering sorrow," a voice spoke from the shadows. Christine jumped in fright. Had some lecherous boy followed her becoming a victim of his own lewd mind? She was glad of the dark for it concealed the pink that flushed her face.
"Who are you?" Christine spoke. She looked around her franticly looking something, anything that would suggest another presence. She saw nothing. "Where are you?"
Ignoring her question the voice said, "Your father surely would take no pleasure in the grief you feel. No parent would". The voice was deep and high in frequency all at the same time. It seemed to possess the knowledge of a thousand philosophers over and yet was innocent in nature. Christine could tell it was male, but to anything else she knew not. He sounded young and old all at the same time. She did not want to know. Ignoring the candle; Christine made a mad dash to the door only to find it locked. She yanked at the brass handle madly but it stubbornly refused to budge. She became scared in that moment. There she was, a small seventeen year old girl locked in a dark room in the middle of the night with an unknown man speaking to her in the shadows. "Do not fear me child. I will not hurt you," the voice soothed her. Christine couldn't help but being moved by the voice, but her fright did not diminish. She sunk into the corner, drawing her knees to her chin.
"Who are you?" Christine spoke.
"I see your questions cannot be easily swayed…I am a prisoner like yourself. I remain trapped in this cold world of unfeeling light paying homage to the dead ghost of memory," the voice answered. Christine believed him; he sounded sincere enough and a sadness lingered in the air that was not her own.
"I see," Christine responded. It was the only thing she could think to say and felt even more embarrassment as she heard it bouncing off the walls in an echo.
"Rest child, I will protect you. There is not much I can do to aid your situation save for making sure you rest soundly," the voice continued. A brief pause took both occupants but the voice soon broke it again, "Your voice is to be envied young child. I cannot see why one such as you would choose to be in the ballet when such a gift has been bestowed upon them".
"My voice is not as great as you presume. It was my father who bestowed such inspiration for me to sing. It died when he did. As my father lied on his deathbed, he promised to send an Angel of Music to protect me. But in the long years since, no such Angel has shown up and my voice has not been rekindled. My voice remains, as it always has been, my father's. I see no reason to sing with his death. It was he who gave me my gift," Christine said sadly.
"And what would you say if I were to deem myself your Angel?" the voice questioned.
"I would scoff at the fool who presumed to be the Angel of Music," Christine answered earnestly. "Everyone knows that the Angel of Music has a voice so heavenly that none could resist it. He or She would have a voice so grand that it would silence the sirens and make Orpheus bow his head in utter shame and humiliation," Christine finished. After all of her years alone, why would the Angel of Music show up so suddenly? No, she absolutely refused to believe that this voice was her Angel.
At that, the voice chuckled softly and began to strum a tune with his voice. He began where Christine had left off in her song of lament for her father from LazarusResurrected. Her eyes widened at the beauty the voice instilled in her. It was beautiful and sad at the same time. His voice was like that of no other. It seemed so heavenly that none on Earth could ever match. Lo and Behold! The Sirens kept silent and Orpheus would have not only bowed his head in shame, but died of humiliation. Christine said nothing and just listened to his heavenly voice, both happy and sad in the same moment.
Finally when the voice came to a halt Christine could say nothing. Was this truly her father's Angel of Music? Was he here to guide her? To protect her? "Sleep child, I will protect you," the voice said softly. Christine could not find her voice to answer and just simply nodded her head. After a few moments of hesitation the voice said in her lack of replies, "Sleep," a bit more firmly.
"Thank you," Christine said as she sat down and drew her knees to her face. Her eye lids were heavy and she fell into deep sleep within seconds. Unbeknownst to her, when her Angel of Music was positive she was securely asleep he leaped down from the shadows of the upper rafts. He was cloaked in midnight ebony and his hazel eyes were the only visible features. His figure was tall and thin, yet with a powerful and domineering presence. With a gloved hand, the Opera Ghost stroked her pale winter cream colored face and sang a sadly sweet song meant only to grace her earlobes.
The following morning Christine woke to Madame Giry shaking her shoulder.
/End Flashback/
Christine was brought back to reality as a particularly strained and sharp note was emitted by the leading soprano. She couldn't help but crinkle her nose at the sound. Gazing at Raoul she knew instantly that he too, even in his limited knowledge if music, was having his ears testing in a daring endurance of high pitch tendencies. A sudden urge to relieve herself came over Christine and she quietly excused herself from her husband.
The long corridors were empty and dark due to the lack of proper lighting; its main pivotal point of focus was on the main stage. Christine was thankful for her knowledge of the Opera Populaire or else she would more lost than an old man without his cane in the middle of Paris. Her shoes made a soft tip-tapping against the finely polished floor. From behind her a voice said, "Christine". Christine whirled around only to come face to face with the dark and angry face of Nadir. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the Persian. She had believed him to be long gone away from Paris and even France in general. He was dressed in his usual long robes of black and his jade eyes flashed dangerously. Anger seared across his features at the sight of Christine. "Do you enjoy knowing the knowledge of how much you torture in so, or are just so ignorant and foolish enough that you are completely ignorant," Nadir demanded furiously. "Do tell me, did you take his box knowing he would be here?"
Christine said nothing. What was she supposed to say? No doubt whatever words she chose they would land her in trouble not only with Nadir and Erik, but also Raoul and, most likely, the authorities. There was no doubt that if she spoke the truth that Nadir would not believe her words. Christine avoided Nadir's flashing eyes and began surveying the shadows. Surely of Nadir was there, Erik was watching. She saw nothing but knew that did not positively confirm Erik's absence. He was a master at concealing himself even in there merest hint of a shadow as Christine well knew.
Because of her lack of words, Nadir became even more enraged. How could she not know? How could see bring the Vicomte to Box 5 along with her presence. She knew that it would drive Erik to the cliff of insanity, not that he hadn't always been there before, but Christine would push him over the brink. Surely she could be that much of a fool. Or had the two years of innocence with the Vicomte blinded her mind? Nadir knew not, and cared little. All he knew was that Erik would surely do something wildly out of control and it was all due to this woman her blind stupidity. Knowing that they were alone, he had, with some degree of trouble, talked Erik out of lashing his Punjab at Raoul, Nadir shook Christine violently. The young woman shrieked in surprise, but he knew that if he was to keep all hell from breaking lose, it had to start with Christine. "Speak you stupid girl, you know as well as I do what the consequences are—why in the name of Allah did you return? Was it to drive Erik to kill himself, or worse other people?" Nadir demanded.
Still Christine said nothing. What would Nadir say if he knew about the rose? What would he say if she admitted that her feelings for Erik had not diminished? No, she thought to herself firmly, it will only cause more pain…on everyone's behalf. But she had to answer; Christine knew that Nadir would not let her lose until he got a satisfied answer. "I…" she began, not really knowing what to say. She couldn't say her heart, she just couldn't.
"Christine!" came the voice, as well as silhouette of Raoul.
Nadir turned to the direction of Raoul and released Christine. No good would come if he was caught by the Vicomte. "Leave now! Leave before tragedy will strike us all—you in particular. For your own sake, as well as that of your husband's, leave," Nadir warned. He turned his heel and began walking in the opposite direction. Quickly shadow enveloped his body as he walked further and further away.
As Christine turned to face her husband with her normal smile, she could not help but let her thoughts return to Erik. It would be best if she left and left quickly. She had been stupid to return. Taking Raoul's hand the couple returned to Box 5 for the remainder of the show. Christine could not force herself to meet Raoul's loving eyes. She would leave that morning and everything would be over with and done. For the sake of Nadir, Raoul and everyone else, she would leave at first light. But most of all, Christine knew it was for the sake of Erik. She hated to admit it, but her feelings for him would never vanish into thin air. Her piece of her heart and the entirety of her voice would always belong to him. If she stayed, it would drive both of them into madness.
MXIXVXIXM
END CHAPTER.
Not the best chapter I admit. I just really wanted to get this out as soon as possible. I will most likely edit it and re-post it at a later date when this story is finished in its entirety. It was a pain to figure out how to end it. I am sorry I didn't get this out quicker—I had a really bad allergy attack last night and have not been in the best of moods. It happens like that when your lungs close off. Damn allergies.
Just note that Nadir will not play a major part in this. I really like him in general and wanted to include him, but there really was no way he can fit in the direction I am taking this.
Please review! It makes chapters come out much quicker.
62 days, 9 hours and 9 minutes till Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince from the time I am writing this.