Desolation Dreamed Of

Of Rendezvous and Risoluto

The words reverberated against each of the four walls, every syllable painfully articulated in malevolent rage. Icy fingers crept around her neck and squeezed ever so slightly, choking her and depriving her of air. Her own hands shot up to her throat, only to find that nothing was there. It wasn't the words that had thickened the air and suffocated her. It was the heartless tone in which it had been said, and it was killing her.

She felt the presence of another being in the room, and an involuntary shiver raced across her body. She instinctively pressed herself against the aged door, her hand darting to the knob, searching desperately for an escape. Christine wrenched the metal violently, but with each turn, she heard the unmistakable click of the mechanism resisting her actions. She wasn't alone.

And then it hit her. This probably had nothing to do with Raoul or her dinner plans. His anger had likely arisen from her lateness for the third day in a row. Pushing herself from the door, she straightened and took in another deep breath. Her eyes were set rigidly in front of her, staring into murky fog, for she could not look down. She could not appear weak.

"I'm late." The words were strong, but there was something wavering underneath. There was something that was weak and frightened behind them—cowardice masked thinly with valor.

"What an astute observation." The words were clipped and unfeeling.

"I apologize." There was no use in crying or becoming emotional—it would do her no good.

"Perhaps I have not stressed how much time is lost through your childish antics?"

"I have no excuse." Worry had left her mind, and she stood strong, ready to face any consequences for her tardiness. There would be a short reprimanding and they would go on with their lessons.

"No, please, there must be something that you found more important than me."

"No, nothing."

"Extra work—is your head seamstress keeping you late? Or perhaps Carlotta is bothering you again. Or do you have some pressing appointment? A dinner engagement?" His voice trailed off and the absence of words left the room cold. She stood, mouth agape slightly as she wracked her mind for something to say, some response that she could offer.

"Nothing," was all she could manage to utter as she gulped slowly.

"Good. I know after all these years you would never lie to your angel."

Lying had never crossed her mind. Christine had never considered it an option, for how does one lie to an all-knowing being sent from heaven? In fact, not admitting to her interactions with Raoul was the first time she had withheld anything from him, and it was making her sick.

"You haven't forgotten our agreement, I presume."

He knew. There was no hiding any longer, for he would always know what she held in her mind. With a deep breath, she let escape from her lips what was so weighing on her conscience.

"Raoul is only a friend," she sighed, but his furious voice interrupted her.

"Raoul will never love you!" he thundered.

That had never crossed her mind either. Silence enveloped her and her mind raced. Such ideas had only resided in the depths of her soul, hidden. Love? The idea was nice, but she wasn't yet sure if she believed in such a thing. Before she could retort, he continued.

"Raoul can never love you. He is aristocracy and you are not. His family would forbid even friendship." It was softer, kinder.

"We were friends in Sweden," she responded defiantly.

"You were nothing but children then!"

"Aren't I still a child," she snapped. "Isn't that what you always call me?" She couldn't believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. She couldn't believe how rudely she was speaking to her mentor—her divine mentor at that!

There was no response, and a long silence followed her impertinence. Did he not know what to say, or would he not merit her insubordination with a response? Had he left?

"Besides, I don't think of him that way," she said stubbornly.

"I know everything, Christine," came his voice after a moment, low and omnipotent. "He will deceive you and he will leave you." Another pause. "But I will not. I will make you into a Prima Donna. Society thinks little of angels these days." His tone was wry.

Christine could feel hardwood beneath her fingers, and she realized suddenly that she was kneeling on the ground. She ran her fingertips over several floorboards, listening to the click her nails made, before she let her hands drop, resigned, by her sides.

"Stand up, child." The weary voice made her head raise and a new wave of goosebumps was sent up her arms. "You are stronger than this."

Twenty four hours never dragged on so slowly. He had barely paid attention during the tour of the Garnier and could barely sleep through the night. Excitement roared through his veins as his dinner with Christine grew nearer and nearer. Raoul had been so lonely during the last few months in France, and seeing someone from Sweden—Christine, at that—had risen his spirits greatly. His parents couldn't know about their meeting, of course. They had allowed it in Sweden, where they were still young and away from the public eye, but Paris was different. The rest of the world would always be different.

In Sweden, his summer house had been a short walk away from the Daaé cottage, and he could remember well the first strains of Monsieur Daaé's violin reaching his ears; tragic melodies and cadences drifting hauntingly through the air. The little girl with bright eyes running out of her cottage and skipping up to him, smiling, without a care in the world. Him, struggling with broken Swedish learned clumsily from a Swedish governess.

"Parlez-vous français?" She was giggling with mirth as he fumbled for words.

Not minding the informal address, he smiled. "Oui," he said gladly.

"Je vais à la mer. On y va?" She looked up at him before glancing down demurely—a seven year old already aware of her girlish charms.

It was the summer of her accident, but that fact never diminished their friendship. It wasn't until after her father died when she finally changed. No more flirty glances, no more bright eyes. Nothing to flaunt her childish beauty. She had been moved away to Paris that fall and he hadn't seen her since. He had been left with little more than a hastily scribbled note, no true explanation for her disappearance, no farewell.

But now, he was seeing her again. He would sit down and gaze into that face he adored so much as a child. He would watch the lips of the girl—no, woman—who had once told him stories at the sea, wind whipping through her hair.

He had been waiting at the entrance to the Garnier for just over an hour, and there was no sign of Christine. He knew that she worked, so he had assumed that she was simply kept a bit late, but surely she would not have forgotten. How could she have?

When he could wait no longer, he pushed open the doors of the Opera House and crossed the threshold before trekking down to the backstage door. He had to ask several people before he learned of Christine's whereabouts—an unused dressing room in one of the more abandoned corners of the Opera House. Raoul found himself nearly jogging as he made his way through the labyrinth of hallways before he finally reached her supposed location.

Bringing his ear to the aged door, he could hear her voice, though he could not make out her hushed words. Raising his fist to the door, he knocked twice, straightening before a resounding click met his ears.

"Have you locked the door?" He could hear her voice now. There were two people in this room—this locked room.

"Yes." It was a man's voice, and with realization, terror seized him.

"Why?" Her voice sounded light, almost amused.

"I worry about unwanted visitors, my dear." He heard her chuckle lightly, and he furrowed his brow as he brought his ear back to the door.

"You're not whispering in my ear anymore," she commented lightly.

"May I not do as I please?"

"Of course."

Raoul was just about to grab at the doorknob when he heard the man's voice again, low and commanding.

"I have something to show you," it said after a moment.

"But I can't—…" she began, but he continued.

"Something you don't need eyes to see." There was a gasp, a quick and feminine intake of air.

"Is that you?"

"I'm as real as you make me." A pause met his ears before he went on. "I'd like to take you away."

"Away?"

"I want to take you to my home where no one can find you."

"Where is your home? Is it time for me to go?"

The silence that followed was tensionless, affectionate even. He could hear her breathing, calm and collected without a worry in the world. Just as she had been with him.

"Oh, my Christine." The voice once so commanding was tender and caring. "Not yet."

"Lead me." Her voice was gentle; she had given her soul to the man in the room. What scared Raoul more than the man's presence was the fact that she had no fear.

"Do not be afraid."

"I'm not."

Raoul couldn't keep silent any longer. He yelled out her name in anguish, pounding on the door with numb fists, but he knew it was useless. The locked room was empty.

So this was pretty epic. And pretty fun to write. Hope you all liked it!

-Christine