Disclaimer: I do not own POTO or Elisabeth or Faust.

A/N: Many thanks, Ripper de la Blackstaff, for all of your kind reviews.

Chapter Eight

Of Dreams and Music

Christine ran as hard as she could towards the inn. She knew that couldn't outrun Erik- it was physically impossible. He was so much stronger than her. All that Christine could hope for was that she'd had a head start. The sound of footsteps drew closer and closer; she swore that she could feel Erik's hand brushing against her shoulder. Finally, she was standing in front of the Crackling Hearth's door. She lunged for the knob, but her hand slipped and she fell to the ground. Erik's figure stood triumphant over her. She suddenly felt lightheaded, and all went dark.

Christine's eyes fluttered upon. She surveyed her surroundings and was happy to find the she was laid out on the bed in her room at the Crackling Hearth and not wherever Erik might have taken her. Christine thought, It was probably just a dream. Later today I will attend Beate's funeral. That incident never happened.

She turned over and called, "Ra… Raoul?"

"Christine!" Her husband came rushing over from the fireplace, where he'd been pacing nervously.

"What happened?" Christine asked.

"I don't know myself. You were found, unconscious, on the inn porch."

"So it wasn't a dream…"

"What wasn't a dream, dear?"

Christine thought to tell Raoul of her experience but opted not to. She remembered how he'd reacted when she'd tried to tell him about Erik's little visit to her wedding. "Nothing."

"I think we ought to buy a house," Christine said one night as she sat beside Raoul in front of the small fireplace in their room. They'd resided in the Crackling Hearth for about three weeks. "It's time we get out on our own. Since I was a little girl I so looked forward to having a house of my own. Besides, we can't start a family in an inn." She squeezed Raoul's hand excitedly.

"You're right, Christine. Where would you like to live, a mansion?"

Thoughts of her rather dismal life in the de Chagny mansion returned to Christine's mind. "No. Mansions are entirely out of the question. I would prefer just a simple cottage."

"Then a simple cottage you'll have." The next day, Raoul and Christine went out on a house hunt. Christine acted as translator between Raoul and the sellers. Finally, the couple was able to decide on a home. It wasn't a cottage. Instead the couple decided upon a charming townhouse on the edge of town.

"If we want to start a family," Raoul said, "then we shall need a decent sized house. Cottages are quaint, but they're meant for older people whose children are out and married, not a young couple trying to start a family." Christine could help but agree. When the owner handed Raoul the key, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. He had a pretty wife by his side and a house to call his own. Seeing Raoul's pride brought back a painful memory to Christine. This was all that Erik had ever wanted. Though Christine liked to believe that she could feel nothing but contempt for such a man as Erik, she sometimes felt a pang of guilt for hurting him so much. What Erik had asked of her was quite easy. In three weeks she'd given all that to Raoul. Then again, Raoul wasn't Erik.

"How do you do?"

"God dag?"

"I am fine."

"JAG er böter."

"You're really doing good with these lessons," Christine said.

Raoul responded, "Du er verkligen… I don't believe I know how to say that yet."

Christine laughed. "I meant that I'm really proud of you, Raoul. You didn't have to say that in Swedish."

"Oh." He gave Christine a peck on the cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too."

It was about a month since Christine and Raoul had been living in their townhome. They had adjusted to married life quite well. Raoul received a steady income from the de Chagny fortune that would allow them to live in modest comfort for the rest of their lives.

Raoul worked hard to learn Swedish so that he might cease to use his wife as a translator. He felt sort of foolish. Of course, Raoul was proud of Christine's fluency in languages, but whoever he was talking to would give him an odd sort of look that bothered him. The person's look seemed to insult him and call him a fool. Raoul knew that he was no fool and wouldn't be branded as one.

The piano that rested in the corner of the parlor seemed to mock Christine. It had been a gift from Raoul, celebrating the twenty-second anniversary of her birthday. He had said that he knew that she liked to sing and that she might need some accompaniment. Little did Raoul know, Christine couldn't play more than a simple lullaby on the piano. Besides, Christine couldn't bring herself to sing any more. She hadn't sung a note since the fatal performance.

Raoul entered the parlor. "Sing something, Christine," he beseeched.

"I cannot," Christine said indifferently.

"Please, Christine. I haven't heard your beautiful voice for so long."

"I promised only to sing for Erik. If I sang I know that I would not be singing for him."

"All your promises to that monster are invalid now. You've already broken some."

"I suppose your right."

"Then please sing!"

Christine took a deep breath and began to sing. It was the Jewel Song from Faust. The song was painful to sing, since Faust had been the opera mainly played at the Opera Garnier during the tragedy, but she sang it anyway, because it was the only song that came to mind. The song came out of her mouth lacking passion and splendor, but Christine tried her hardest not to notice. When Christine had finished, Raoul clapped his hands, "Bravo! Bravo!" Christine sighed. He'd never know the difference between just singing and singing with passion.

The rest of the evening was spent in idle conversation. They talked of the weather and of their plans for the upcoming month. A typical evening in the de Chagny household passed like this. When the clock struck twelve, the couple would retire to bed. Twelve came, and Raoul and Christine went to bed.

Christine went into her dressing room to change into her nightgown. She went over to the armoire, opened a drawer, and removed the nightdress. Once she had changed, Christine started out to the bedroom. As she moved towards the door, her gaze fell on her vanity where an odd box was set. It was finely crafted. The exterior of the box was beautifully painted with flowers, mostly roses. On the lid, in gold leafing, was a large C. Her curiosity piqued, she went over and examined it. Christine carefully lifted the lid, as if expecting something dreadful to happen. Instead of something dreadful, music floated out of the box. It was a gorgeous melody that Christine immediately recognized. Erik had played it for her once, during the first fortnight she'd spent with him in the house on the lake. It was entitled "Christine."

"This is you, put in to music," Erik said when Christine remarked on how beautiful it was. "I'm afraid, though, that nothing can accurately capture your beauty and personality, Christine." Christine looked down at the box and became lost in the melody. When she finally left the dressing room and got into bed beside Raoul, "Christine" played on in her head.

A/N: Please R&R!