A/N:

Sporky says: Wow, guys! I'll just summarize my reaction when I saw all of the reviews and favorites and whatnot: I almost fell out of my chair with glee. Literally. If I knew that fan fiction would be this exciting, dang, I would have been writing a lot sooner than this. Anyhow, thank you! As for the chapter, there's not as much Raoul/Erik action (I mean that in the best of ways, having the split personality, of course), but I promise you that the next chapter has what you want.

Hota says: W00T! (/n3tsp33k) I'd give you guys all special replies for each of you (and that made little sense, but for once, I don't particularly care), but it seems my dear Sporky has already done that. All I have to say is: SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I LOFF YOU ALL!

Ahem. Better now. :D I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter, because it was a lot of fun to write… and yeah. Thank you guys so much:D :D :D

Final Author Note, I Swear: Well, I must say I didn't know about review responses not being allowed, thanks for telling me! I never visit the front page, so I obviously missed out on that. And now, the Long Author's Note from Hell is ending. Onto the chapter!

Not really, because I am a liar: As of April 23, 2006, chapter two has been edited and improved. There were quite a few things that needed fixing, so we fixed them. It should be much better now. :) Thanks for sticking with us, this is our first chaptered (ph)fiction.

1881 – Paris, France

Music. All she could hear, see, feel, taste, and smell was the music. Swirling around her, it enveloped her very being. With as much grace as she could, she skirted her way around the large elephant that was being hauled onto stage, and bit her lip slightly as she concentrated on the dance. Développé….jeté ….glissade…. oh, what next?

"Arabesque!Christine Daaé, the arabesque follows the glissade! Get your head out of the clouds and concentrate!" Madame Giry's harsh bark was emphasized by a loud bang of her walking stick on the polished wood surface of the stage.

Jumping, Christine bubbled over with apologizes. The stern-faced ballet instructor would have none of it. Pulling the errant dancer over to the side, Mme. Giry began her infamous lecture on concentration. Christine pretended to listen intently, looking ashamed when needed, nodding at others. Over the instructor's shoulder, she saw the managers, Debienne and Poligny, followed by three strange men. They were too far away for her to make out what they were saying, but the managers were obviously showing the other men something. I thought they did not give tours…Christine wondered abstractly, before a resounding thump near her foot brought her back to reality, which unfortunately included a now very peeved Madame Giry.

"Have you not been listening, child? How can you expect to be a contributing part of this corps de ballet if you are off in the clouds dreaming throughout every practice? I know not what you dream of, but whether it be gentlemen, angels, or kittens, ballet comes first! You have a duty, and I will not hesitate to give your position to someone much more willing! Now, back to practice!"

Hustling back over to the group, which was now stretching, Christine settled herself down in a flurry of gauze and cloth. Mme. Giry always threatened to replace her, but Christine knew that she wouldn't. With Mama Valérius' health failing, the stern ballet instructor had taken the girl under her wing, and was quite comparable to a mother hen, squawking after her offspring. The stress of the upcoming production Hannibal was weighing heavily on all the minds, only a week away.

Easing herself into a calf stretch, Christine peered over at the men to get a better look. Two of them, she noted, seemed to know each other quite well, for they grouped together, and the third man trailed behind. He was younger and seemed quiet and withdrawn. As they walked into the blinding glare of a stage lamp, the younger man brought his hand up to his eyes, squinting in a way that seemed…. No, it couldn't be… Yet, the blonde hair looked so familiar….

The first thing she remembered was the wind. Its fingers twirled her hair around, tossing it gleefully. She lifted her hands, laughing, and danced around in joy, her bare feet splashing into the surf as it tickled her toes. Spinning herself like the ballerina she'd seen months ago, she imitated grace and struck a pirouette. Daddy would be so proud of me, she thought faintly, saddening briefly at the thought of him not being able to enjoy the day with her, being sick in bed, for the fifth time this year.

Her musings were soon redirected when the wind playfully tugged at her scarf. "Oh!" she gasped, as the wind suddenly lost all traces of merriness and ripped the scarf, her favorite red one, into the sea. Daddy had always told her never ever to go into the sea, and she didn't want to, either. The waves were so big, and she was so small…

Her lower lip was trembling and her eyes were tearing up as she watched the scarf frolic in the waves, dancing farther and farther away. Behind her, she heard the voice of a little boy. "It's all right; I'll go and fetch your scarf out of the sea!"

She turned around to see a young lad, blonde hair blowing all around his handsome face, come running towards her, then straight past her, then into the plunging waves! Watching, entranced, she saw him struggle with the current, swim a little ways, go underwater, come up sputtering, and battle with the water to reach her scarf. After what seemed like hours, he reached the floating piece of fabric, and turned back to the shore, grinning and punching his fist into the air triumphantly.

Floundering back to the shore, he knelt down on one knee in front of Christine, and looked up at her with a look of utmost honesty on his face. "I offer you this as a token of my undying love." He bashfully held up the sopping wet scarf, looked at it, and sighed. "Well… it's not much, but…" Little Christine silenced him by kissing him on top of his wet blonde mop. "Of course it's enough. My name is Christine, what's yours?"

---

Although she was still inside the Opera house, but Christine could almost smell the salt from the beaches of northern France. She stood up and went through her dance routine, but mid-jeté, another memory came to mind…

"Raoul, what's that?" Christine asked, inquisitively peering over her comrade's shoulder.

"It's kind of hard to explain… my brother bought it for me, he says it's a…it's a... chem-stry set? Look! If I mix the blue bottle with the orange..."

Fascinated, Christine watched as Raoul poured the blue liquid into a glass bottle, followed by the yellow. "But… Raoul, you said orange…"

Aghast, Raoul looked at the bottle in his hand. Yellow shone up at him. Fearfully, he glanced back at the concoction before him as it started to froth and bubble. "Uh oh… Christine… watch out!"

He dove on top of her, trying to cover her with his own body as a shield against the impending disaster. A quiet whump was heard from the bottle, and the room started to fill up with smoke. Coughing, Raoul grabbed the nearest part of Christine- her arm- and dragged her outside. "My God! Christine! Are you all right?"

He started to pound her on her back when he finally heard her voice. "Raoul, please! I'm fine!" She giggled, hiding her mouth with a dainty hand.

Wordlessly, he pulled her into a tight hug, which said what words couldn't: I'm so glad that you're all right.

---

Her thoughts fluttered about like trapped butterflies, hither and thither, bumping into each other, off and around, never stopping to catch a breath. She couldn't get her mind off Raoul. It's been so long… she thought wistfully, smiling as she gathered up her shoes after practice. Maybe he'll see me and remember!

Time seemed to stop as she walked past her former childhood friend. More than friend, if my memory serves me right, she thought, containing her self-conscious grin. She looked pointedly at him, and he turned her way. He first looked over her head, at the vacant theater, and then slowly, so slowly his gaze came closer to her. His eyes met hers, and Christine forgot to breathe. He was older, yes, but he still had the same eyes. Smiling, she began to say something, but was interrupted.

"Monsieur de Chagny! If you'll come with me, I'll show you the rest of the Opera! Back here, we have the stage wings…."

Christine watched; face falling, as Raoul jerked at the sound of M. Debienne's voice. The man trailed after the group, dragging his heels. She stood there gaping for a moment, and then straightened up. He didn't know me; he doesn't remember! He doesn't remember, did I really mean that little to him! He doesn't remember me…She despondently moved towards her dressing room, hearing but not listening to the talk of the girls.

"Did you see the managers?"

"Ooooh, who ever were they leading around? To old men, and one young one!" a girl proclaimed, swaying her hips.

"Sorelli, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! What would Phillipe think if he heard you?"

"Phillipe isn't here, is he?"

Another voice chimed in. "I wonder if the blonde one would be good in bed!"

Peals of laughter followed. "I don't know, he looked like he was haunted! Once you had him pinned down," The girl speaking made a growling noise, "He'd probably start crying!" Some girls had enough modesty to blush, while others just laughed coarsely.

The girl who had growled sauntered over to the nearest blonde-haired dancer and swung her hips around provocatively before grabbing the girl's wrists above her head and forcing her against a wall, making more animal noises. Playing along, the blonde girl collapsed in fake tears and convulsions. "And my father!" she heaved, "He beat me every night, and then when Maman died…."

Everyone laughed uproariously, while Christine clenched her fists. How dare they talk about dear, sweet Raoul that way? Stumbling into her dressing room, she stared at herself in the large mirror in the far corner of the room. A pale girl affronted her, brown curls astray from the morning's worth of ballet practice. Her slight form heaved a bit from the exertion of practice and her blue eyes had a troubled look about them. A wreck, Christine thought, no wonder he didn't recognize me.

"I wonder if the blonde one would be good in bed." She snorted. Mama Valérius would slap my hand for not being lady-like, she thought abstractly, and was surprised to find that the pain would be a welcome distraction to what she was feeling now.

Vaguely, Christine wondered why she was so bothered by the girls. It's not like Raoul was any more hers than he was someone else's. "But he is." She told her reflection in the mirror, stamping her foot in a childish way.

She sat down at her vanity table to tame her hair. The gentle stroking and pulling lulled her into a trance…

The two sat on a rock near the shore, watching the setting sun turn the waves red. Occasionally, they would be showered in the salty spray as a large wave hit one of the rocks in ocean.

"Raoul," the girl asked, turning her petite chin up to look at her playmate, "What makes the waves?" Raoul stretched out his legs, and leaned up against Christine's back. "Well,", he started, "There's a big cliff way out that-a-way, so big that it reaches all the way up into the clouds and into Heaven!"

Christine gasped, imagining such a cliff. Raoul shook his blonde head with laughter and continued with his story. "And, you see, the angels like to have contests with each other to see who can make the biggest splash when they dive in the ocean. What we call waves is really the ripples of them diving into the water! Like… that one!" The boy pointed to a large wave coming their way. "That was the Angel of Faeries!"

The wave slammed into the rocks, and little droplets of water cascaded down on the pair. Clapping gleefully, Christine watched for more waves. "I think the Angel of Faeries did pretty well…. But oh! Oh! Raoul, look!" A little finger pointed at a massive wall of water moving their way. "Oh, this must be the Angel of Music!"

She jumped up quickly, and balanced on the front of the rock, her arms outstretched like a figurehead on a ship as the wave rammed into the coast, utterly soaking her. Raoul watched quietly. Without thinking, he untangled his legs- he'd been having problems lately with the ungainly things- and walked over to her, standing closely behind her. He wondered what he was thinking, she would never take this from him, but his thoughts scattered as she leaned back into him. Tentatively, he put his arms around her tiny waist.

Her relaxation and obvious contentment lent him courage. "God, Christine. I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured into her salty hair. She turned around to face him, blue eyes bright with curiosity, a question on her tongue. "Sssh, you don't need to say anything." Raoul said gently, placing a finger on her lips.

He bent his head down to her level, and looked her straight in the eyes. "Christine, I think I love you." Her eyes widened a bit and her mouth gaped for a moment before she managed to whisper back at him. "I think I love you, too".

Christine closed her eyes expectantly. Smiling a bit, Raoul thought of all the fairy tales that he'd been told since he was young. This is where I kiss her, he thought. His resolve fluttered a bit, and then he steeled his nerves and brushed his lips against hers. She gasped a little, smiling, and hugged him close, resting her curls against his shoulder.

The last bit of the sun slipped over the horizon, and the two children stood at the edge of the ocean holding each other, both soaking wet. But they didn't care.

---

A sharp knock shook Christine out of her reverie. "Christine? Are you in there?" Meg's voice called through her door, enticing the brunette out of her ponderings.

"Just a minute, Meg," Christine replied. She ran the comb through her hair once more, cursing as it got stuck on a nasty snarl.

"Come on, Christine! Rehearsals are about to start up again!" Meg's grey eyes twinkled mischievously.

As the two entered from one of the wings, they could hear La Carlotta, the resident diva, warming up. Christine admired her voice; she had not gotten as far as she had in the Opera for no reason. In her wildest dreams, Christine hoped to have half of Carlotta's talent. However, her attitude left much to be desired: she was good and she knew it.

Rehearsal went as normal. As the company cut off the final note, the curtain swished closed. With her next breath, the diva began to yell.

Meg gave Christine her "Here we go again" look. Arguments breaking out here were as common as the pigeons that roosted in the rafters of the opera house. Once on stage, the two did a few stretches so as not to hurt themselves while dancing, and they listened to Carlotta's complaining.

"I 'ate this song! Would you just look at the pretty dancers! They are so pretty, if only they could dance!" La Carlotta yelled, pointing at the managers. "What ever happened to paying attention to real talent? Oh, I know; no one wants to look at me because of my hat! I 'ate my 'at!"

Christine giggled and looked over at Meg.

She ate her hat? Meg mouthed at her. Christine bent over and laughed outright. A sharp tap very near her toes caught her attention. She looked up into Madame Giry's scowling face. Christine blanched and promptly bit a knuckle to keep from laughing again. Meg just kept silently laughing at both Carlotta and Christine.

"Señora," one of the new managers tried to placate her. "Señora, please!"

Unfortunately for them, the Spanish singer would not be appeased.

"Armando, traiga mi perro." With her dog in hand, she turned towards the woe-begotten managers once more, "I 'ope they like idiótas de bailar because I am not performing! ¡Adiós!"

"Wha—What are we going to do?" the short manager asked the other one.

"I don't know, André," he whispered the last bit for André's ears only. "You are the one who is knowledgeable in music!"

André stuttered. André sweated. André looked from Madame Giry to Monsieur Reyer. André sweated some more. André wiped his face off. André was struck with an idea.

"Isn't there an understudy or something?" he asked Reyer.

"There is no understudy for La Carlotta!" Reyer replied as if André was the most unintelligent creature in the universe.

"But… why? Aren't all roles supposed to have an understudy?" André asked.

Monsieur Reyer sighed. "It's a new production, there is no understudy."

"Christine Daaé could sing it, messieurs," Meg chirped from the wings.

"And just who the devil would she be?" Firmin yelled as he whirled around to face the blonde dancer.

Meg glanced at Christine, a smile brightening her face. "Her!" She pointed to a mortified Christine, who got up and tried to run off stage. Meg caught her wrist and dragged her to the panicking men.

"Go on; show them what you've got! I've heard you, you can do it!" Meg whispered to her gaping friend.

At their wits end, the men conceded. "Very well. No one else is offering. Come now, let's hear you sing… You'll sing from… damn it all, Reyer, play her something to sing!"

The director eyed the shy girl. "I hope that you have some passing knowledge of this opera, if not, you will not be able to learn it all in the week we have until opening night."

"Monsieur, my teacher has been covering all of the main pieces with me for the past few months. He… he thought it good for me to learn them."

"Then you will be familiar with the aria from act three. Your key?"

She stuttered her answer and moved to the side of the piano. Breathe, remember what the Angel said. In and out, you'll do fine….

After a few quick warm ups, the familiar piano line began and she took a deep breath.

"Think of me… think of me fondly… when we've said goodbye…" her voice was a breathy whisper, and she saw horror reflected in the manager's eyes. Mme Giry banged her cane at some giggling girls, and she stopped and cleared her throat.

"André, this is doing nothing for my nerves!" she heard the managers whisper, and grew angry. Nothing for your nerves? Her anger lent her voice power, and she sung on.

"Remember me, every so often, promise me you'll try! On that day, that not so distant day, when you are far away and free—if you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me!"

Reyer finished out the song with her. "In my opinion, she will do fine."

A maid in the aisles of seats behind him gave a whoop, and Mme Giry shot her a withering glare, which silenced the errant girl. Christine smiled nervously at Reyer and Mme Giry. The two managers looked at each other and nodded.

"Well, gentlemen, we have our new Elissa." Firmin stated.

---

Christine lit a candle in the small little chapel of the opera house. It was small, grey and drab; the only things being of any interest were the candelabras with tiny portraits on them and the stained glass window of the Virgin Mary.

Christine blew out the lighter and knelt in front of one of the candelabras. The candle she lit had a small, faded portrait of a man with dark hair and bright eyes, engraved with the name Gustav Daaé.

"Papa," she whispered to the candle, "Papa, the most amazing things happened today! During morning rehearsals, the new patron came! You'd never guess who he was, Papa! It was Raoul! You know, the boy from Perros? But he didn't remember me, Papa," Her face fell a little. "Oh, well, it's been seven years at least since I've last seen him." She shrugged and grew silent. After a moment, her eyes sparkled to life again.

"You know what else happened, Papa? La Carlotta quit for the hundredth time, and the managers picked me to replace her! Can you believe it? It's like you always wanted, Papa! It's going to be a hard week for me, trying to learn the blocking and the minor parts of the role before opening night, but just think! Your little girl is to be a Prima Donna! And I have you and the Angel to thank for it. Thank you, Papa. I wish you were here to help me…"

The easiest way to describe the day was grey. The clouds hung low and spat on the humble group of mourners below. The tombstones and carved angels were all varying shades of grey. The only bit of color was the lone red rose on the top of the black casket as it was lowered six feet below the surface of the earth.

A young girl stood, garbed from head to toe in black. A tear traced its way from her glassy blue eyes down to her trembling pink lips, falling off her face as she mouthed "Papa…"

An elderly woman came up behind the girl and put one hand on the girl's shaking shoulders. She, too, was dressed in a black dress and veil, but her graying hair contrasted more so than the girl's brown hair.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, may God take you in His hands and guide you through the Gates of Heaven. Rest in peace, Gustav Daaé." The priest's sermon droned on to its monotonous end as the coffin hit the bottom of the grave. An anguished cry tore from the little brunette's mouth as she fell to her knees.

"Papa!" she pounded her fists on the ground. "Papa, don't—don't leave! Don't leave me here, Papa…" she whimpered.

The old woman gently picked the girl up and held her close. "He's in a better place now, Chrissie." She murmured to the distraught youngling. "And if you're a really good girl, maybe the good Lord will allow him to visit you. Shush, dear, let's go." She set Christine down and held her hand. Christine gave no fight; she sniffled all the way back through the grey cemetery.

Finally back at home, Christine ran to her bedroom and sunk down on the bed, sobbing. Up until that day, she'd been able to fool herself that Papa was just sleeping, but as she saw him in the casket, lowered into the ground, the stark reality had been too much. Papa…. Their walks by the sea, playing in the streets and carnivals in all the little towns, the stories, him comforting her after a vicious nightmare… gone.

In her mind, she heard her father telling her a bedtime story. It was her favorite, about Little Lotte's first recital after hearing the Angel of Music. She choked out another sob, and began to drift off towards sleep, smiling weakly through her tears.

Christine looked around the chapel. No one was there with her, no melodic voice to surround her being with its holy glory. Sighing, she stood and went back up towards the stage to rehearse with Reyer.

---

A week later

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." Raoul muttered to himself. "Players, players, players, and here are the best of them." He glanced down at the stage before him. There was someone— consulting the programme, he saw it was the tenor, Whatshisface- singing, and a large elephant being rolled onto the stage.

Raoul settled his face into his hand and sighed. He could only conjure up so much interest for music, although as of late, he'd been getting more and more involved, which was why he had persuaded Philippe to take up sponsoring this place. His brother had been willing to comply- after all, he did have considerable interest in a dancer, Sorelli. However, there were some times, like this, when he was bored out of his mind. "If you sing to that elephant any more, you fat old man, it's going to get up and leave. I'd recommend you stop before the audience joins it."

He drooled his way through the first two acts, possibly falling asleep during one point, he wasn't quite sure. He was just coming back to consciousness during the third act, and when he looked down onto the stage, there was a woman in white, singing a solo. She had a good voice, if a little timid. Knowing Carlotta to be anything but, Raoul picked up the programme and flicked to the cast list. Mlle. Carlotta was listed as Elissa, and this was certainly not her.

Blinking, he remembered an announcement that the managers had made before the show. Due to sickness, La Carlotta will not be performing tonight, they had said. Mlle. Christine Daaé was to replace her instead.

Christine. Christine…. the name stirred something deep inside of him,and a face floated in front of his eyes, a young woman surrounded by a halo of brown curls, her blue eyes shining as she looked lovingly past his shoulder. "Angel…" she mouthed, smiling. Christine! His memory suddenly overflowed. Christine Daaé! How could he not remember?

It was a breezy day in Perros. The days were always breezy. Raoul was chasing after a little girl with innumerable chestnut curls flying behind her.

"Come on, Chrissie!" he called after her. The girl turned her head, sapphire eyes sparkling and laughed more. Raoul tried to speed up, but his legs were that of gawkish boy and he tripped.

He landed on the gravelly road, but he kept rolling until he was rolling down a grassy hillside. Finally, a boulder stopped him.

"Oof!"

"Raoul?" he heard Christine call. "Raoul, you know how I hate playing hide and seek, come out now! Stop teasing me!"

Raoul managed to grunt rather loudly, but was otherwise too winded by the fall to talk. He saw Christine's head peer down the hill. Her eyes widened and quickly filled up with tears.

"Oh, Raoul!" she cried as she ran down the slope towards him. "Oh, Raoul, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to say —I didn't want—Raoul, please forgive me!"

Raoul took a shuddering breath and sat up. "Christine, I could nevernot forgive you." He said as he wiped the tears off of her face. "Please don't cry, Lotte."

Christine took his hand and helped him up the slope.

"Are you sure you can't stay for dinner?" Raoul asked her one last time. Christine's head hung lower and she nodded mutely.

"I have to help Papa." She sighed and traipsed back towards her own home and her papa. Raoul walked with her and didn't mind the scolding he received for being late to dinner that night.

Raoul, lost in his memories, hadn't taken heed to the pain that was welling up in his stomach. As he was brought back to reality, it hit him like a slap in the face. Blanching, he turned to his brother, Philippe, and managed to stammer that he'd meet him at home, he just remembered something that he had to take care of right away. Philippe nodded, not even looking at his brother. He's probably too busy trying to catch a glimpse of some poor girl's cleavage, the sod… Raoul thought, before quietly excusing himself from the box.

Once clear, he sprinted into a dark stairwell. Not here, my God, if someone were to see… He tried not to cry out in pain as his bones popped out of their sockets. Clutching at his face, he pushed away images of his face as it melted away.

Still gasping with pain, he crawled to into a broom cupboard and replaced his now too-small clothing for a fine evening suit, finishing the outfit off with a fedora, cape, and mask.

---

With a sigh, Christine picked herself up off the floor and gently dusted off her costume. "What am I still doing in this thing?" she asked no one in particular, and was alarmed when a voice answered her.

"I don't know, silly, but you'd better get changed before anyone sees you!"

Whirling around, Christine turned to face Meg. The blonde girl grinned at her. "Did I scare you?"

Christine nodded as she looked over her friend, still in her costume as well. "I could say the same about you, you know."

Giggling, Meg conceded defeat, and then held out her arm. "May I accompany the new Prima Donna of the Opera Populaire to her dressing room so she might prepare herself visit with her many callers, many of whom might be very rich, very eligible bachelors?"

"Why, certainly!" Christine hooked arms with her friend as they wandered to her dressing room. As they walked, Meg talked of idle little things: the weather, the new managers, and the likes.

"Meg, what's the matter?" Christine asked, seeing that something was troubling her friend. Meg looked her full in the face.

"Christine…. Where did it come from? Tonight! Your performance! I remember how last year you barely made the chorus, and now you go and-" she waved her hand, all her vehemence dying.

Grabbing her hands and pulling them close to her own, Christine hustled into a relatively empty corner.

"Do you remember what I told you about the Angel of Music?" Meg nodded. "Well… you're going to think that I have gone positively insane, but I… I've heard the Angel! I can feel him all around me, and he gives me lessons at night in my dressing room and you… you don't believe me, do you?"

"Oh, Christine, I wish I could! But I know that can't happen! It's like a fairy tale, Christine, and you know that those aren't real. There's no princess in the tower imprisoned by a dragon, and there's no shining knight to save her! It just doesn't happen! If you don't want to tell me who has been teaching you, that's all right, just please, don't lie to me."

Meg turned to leave, and caught sight of her friend's stricken, pale face. Smiling sadly, she offered Christine her hand again. "Come on Chrissie, you're pale and cold. Let's get you back to your dressing room; it's been a long night…"

---

Once back in her dressing room, a maid helped Christine undress from her Elissa costume and into her nightshift. Bidding the maid goodnight, she began to singing softly as she paced around her dressing room, winding down from a day of excitement. She was bubbling over with happiness, and was waiting eagerly for her angel to arrive. He was sure to come and tell her how well or how badly she did tonight. Sitting on her divan, she fervently hoped for the former of the two.

A low and beautiful voice from the mirror cut through her musings.

"Christine…. the angels wept tonight…."