Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. Don'tcha know?
A/N: Hey everyone! Like the lil' prologue? Well, to some extent, you must've because you're reading this, right? (Boy I hope somebody's reading this…) I know the prologue was short, but this chapter's a fairly good length. Okay, the story officially starts one year after the prologue. Chapter One is mostly Christine-reflections, but the little action there is happens to be very important. So… enjoy! Please R/R! Love y'all!!
Chapter One: Fires of Affliction
Christine entered the bedroom on tip toe, quietly closing the door behind her. Raoul had already fallen asleep and she did not want to wake him. It was well past midnight; Christine had taken to retiring to bed long after the rest of the house was already asleep. It was the only time she could be alone, and she liked the night. It was serene, peaceful, a time for reflection and herself. It felt like she never stopped moving during the day; being the wife of a Vicomte entailed much more than she had ever anticipated. So she spent the day bustling around the house, going out on errands (she hated sending servants for jobs that she herself could easily do) and accompanying Raoul to the various events he attended. Then at last the day would be over and she could relax in her drawing room with a book, her journal or just her own thoughts.
Her husband attempted to wait up for her every night, and every night he failed. And so it was this night. He lay on his back, his head tilted to the side, sleeping peacefully. His perfectly formed lips parted slightly in the middle, exposing his teeth. He was a beautifully formed man, Christine noted. Not that she hadn't noticed this before. But here, in the darkness, his face was lit only by the rays of the moon through the balcony doors and the light of a candle on the bed stand, and it glowed with angelic splendor.
That candle! Christine sighed and rolled her eyes as she hurried forth to his bedside. No matter how many times she reminded him to put it out before he went to sleep, he never remembered. Holding back her hair, she blew out the candle. Raoul's face flushed into darkness. Christine smiled and kissed her husband's forehead gently, careful not to wake him.
Suddenly the balcony doors blew open with a tremendous gust of wind. Christine hurried to shut them, but when she arrived at the threshold the air was still. Strange, she thought, it is not even windy tonight. She stepped onto the balcony and closed the doors behind her. The air was fresh and clean out here, and Christine did not fear to be without candlelight. The moon beams were always enough.
She leaned her elbows on the railing and looked over the garden. Her roses would be in bloom soon; she had planted them last Spring when they had first moved in and had anxiously awaited for their rise as they slumbered through Winter. She longed to see which would bloom first, the white, or the red, for she had planted them both, mixed between each other.
This was a nightly ritual for her by now; she had been coming out onto this balcony since her wedding night, almost a year ago. And for almost a year she had almost been happy. She had everything most women dreamed of and how people envied her! Christine couldn't deny that, women told her everyday with their spiteful glances and flattering words. She had made it incredibly far for a girl whose father was a nomad. She now had a beautiful house, constantly filled with servants and guests, and a doting husband. For what was Raoul but doting. He loved her with such an innocent passion. In the few weeks between their departure from the Opera House and their wedding, he visited daily, for hours at a time, sitting with her and watching as she lost herself in her wandering thoughts. He believed her traumatized, weakened by her experience. He was wrong. There was nothing weak in Christine's nature, not anymore. She knew who she was, what she was capable of, and that knowledge gave her strength. She laughed outright at her silly actions of the past. All the while Raoul planned their wedding, Christine formed a plan. She would return to Erik, show him who she was now, a woman worthy of his love, and together they would know bliss. Raoul was a childhood love, always to be treasured but not enough to sustain her.
On the day before her wedding, she returned to the Opera House and crept down through the cellars, finding herself beside the lake sooner than she expected. There was no boat. Christine called out for him, but there was no answer but the calm sway of the water. So she waited. She sat down and waited for hours, calling out every so often, refusing to give up. Several hours later her call was answered, but not by he she sought. The Persian, Nadir, responded; she could remember his exact words.
"You'll wait for an eternity and still get no response, I'm afraid," he said softly, making his presence known for the first time. "Erik died three days ago." He paused here, as if waiting for her to say something, but there is nothing one can say to such news. "He went peacefully…" Christine couldn't remember what else he said then, something about how he died, as if she didn't believe it already. When he finished she asked to see him, one last time, and he told her she couldn't, that he had already been buried, just this morning. He would not tell her where; he did not think it wise.
She left the underground shore a widow in her heart but would not let herself cry until she was home, in her bed alone, for the last time before sharing it with someone else, someone she did not love, for the rest of her life. All her plans, laid to waste. She should have returned weeks ago. She lay for hours, intermittently crying for Erik, praying for his soul, and hating his memory for leaving her. She cursed his name, she declared her undying love to his unseen presence. The pain she felt consumed her entire being and left her speechless of any words to describe it. She finally fell asleep out of pure exhaustion on a tear-stained pillow.
Christine awoke the next morning fully aware of what she had to do, and went to Raoul willingly at the altar a few hours later. Erik would have wanted her to be cared for. And there was love between them, even if it wasn't the love she wanted, it was there. It would have to do.
In this fashion she had lived for a year, appearing to be the perfect wife to the perfect husband in the perfect marriage, more affectionate and caring than any their friends had ever seen, or so they said. But inwardly, she cried out with the same pain that had haunted her that never ending night. She endured it as best she could, keeping herself busy, which wasn't difficult to do, and dedicated her nights to the husband she should have had, to whom she would always be married in her heart.
"I thought I heard you out here, darling," Raoul said, stepping out onto the balcony and breaking her reverie. Thank goodness she had not been speaking aloud to Erik, as she so often did. "I do not know how you got by me without me seeing you."
"You were sleeping, dear," she said to him, a forced smile on her face. They went through this every time she woke him up, that is why she took such great care to avoid it.
"I was not," he said. But tonight he did not protest it anymore and joined her at the ledge. "What have you been doing?"
"Thinking of the roses," Christine replied, not a complete lie. "They should bloom soon."
"Come to bed."
"In a few moments."
He kissed her on her forehead. "I will wait up for you," he said, leaving her alone once again.
Christine sighed. She should go in soon; Raoul would wait for her. But she had not had the chance to speak to Erik tonight… Raoul was probably too close for her to speak aloud, but it was tradition by now, and she did not know if she could sleep without the comforting conversation. And tonight she felt such a longing, a pull on her very soul. She had never dared to beg God to send his spirit to her, but the pain was almost unbearable tonight and she didn't know why… Yes. Yes she did know why. It had been a year, a year exactly, almost to the hour, that she had last seen him. She felt it more than she knew the exact date and time. If there was any moment he would appear to her, it would be now.
"Erik," she whispered softly, as if her mouth was by his ear, "Erik, I need you. Please, Erik, come to me. Let me hear your voice one more time and say to you the things I never had the chance to say. I could live the life I lead for a hundred more years if you would only come to me this one night--"
--There--a light in the darkness, fluttering, shimmering. Christine's heart stood still. Her lungs took in no air. All she could do was stare at the faint glimmer in the garden. It was impossible, there was no way… And yet, he had promised once to come whenever she called… It had to be him! As soon as her body began functioning again she propelled it to the door with as much force as she could muster while still being soft and quiet. Inside, Raoul's candle was relit, but he himself was fast asleep, so Christine threw herself outside their bedroom. She ran down the hall, wondrously breathless, her heart soaring higher than a child on Christmas morning.
Her feet barely touched the grass as she ran outside into the garden, toward the spot she had seen the flickering. Beneath two large oak trees was a bench where she often sat. That is where he waited, she was sure. Past the sleeping rose bed, behind that tree, there he was--Erik! Her heart leaped up as she finally arrived at the bench, then crashed down. Nothing. He was not there. Just a mirror she had left out, reflecting in the moonlight.
Christine sat down on the stone bench, defeated. She lay the ornate hand mirror on its face to stop its depressing shimmering. She was stupid to have let her hopes grow as tall as they had. Erik was dead, and he was not coming back.
But it wasn't fair! Christine hung her head and let the tears fall freely. She was still his! A year later and she still cried for him! The heart doesn't heal--once broken it can never be mended, no matter what anyone said. Happiness was forever out of her reach. She could be content, but never happy, sublimely happy. The potential for bliss died with Erik. The only comfort she could find now was in the hope that, as a spirit, he could look into her soul and see how she loved him.
Christine stood up and wiped away her tears. She had to be sensible. Raoul must not know. He was her last hop for joy. Put Erik aside, recall him in your dreams, but live now for your husband. She repeated this to herself as she slowly walked back toward the house.
Passing under her balcony, he eyes fleetingly wandered up to the window. She stopped. Something was odd, out of place. A strange orange light glowed from within. Christine stepped forward to get a better look. Her eyes widened as her curtains were swallowed by that orange light, now orange and yellow… and red.
Christine gathered up every inch of vocal strength she had in her body and screamed. "Raoul!"
