Desolation Dreamed Of

Of Endgames and Écossaise

The change of environment had not been easy for Christine for several reasons. Firstly, she had never step foot in his mansion—for that was the only word she knew to adequately describe his sprawling home—and was having difficulty navigating it, despite her superb memory. Secondly, while Raoul was incredibly kind and welcoming, his brother Philippe was far from it. What made things worse was that because Philippe was technically the head of the household, being several years older than Raoul, all of their servants caught onto his attitude and also scorned Christine's presence.

Her days were significantly less fulfilling than those at the Opera House, seeing as she spent most of her hours sitting quietly in her room. When she first arrived, servants would bring her books or needlepoint—apparently what other ladies occupied their time with—but they remained untouched on her bedside table. What was she going to do with a book?

Thankfully Raoul would take her out when he could, and they would walk arm in arm through the park, or down the streets of Paris. The gesture was sweet, but something in her couldn't help but feel a bit like an animal—having to be taken out for walks periodically to keep her from going stir-crazy.

Christine said nothing of it, though, and dutifully played the role of his fiancée. And when he would introduce her to his friends, she would smile politely and endure the rude questions they always had regarding her blindness. She would pretend not to hear Philippe calling her a freak across the house, and would feign ignorance when Raoul claimed that his older brother often forgot how well sound carried through the house.

That was how she learned of the Prima Donna's death, ironically enough. While she sat in her room one morning, she listened to the sound of the servant's voices through a grate in the corner, and what a blessing it was to reside just above the servant's quarters; it kept her mildly entertained, if nothing else.

"You've heard about Annabelle Arcati, no doubt?" came the muffled voice of one of the maids. The familiar name caught Christine's attention immediately and she strained her ears to make out each word.

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," was the salty response.

"The new Prima Donna! After the Viscount's little toy was taken out of the opera, they gave the role to Arcati—…"

"You know I don't give a damn about the Opera. Leave that to the snobby nosed and high-strung, eh?"

"That's not the interesting part, see? She was found on Tuesday morning, dead as a fish! And she was murdered, no less!"

Christine stood up quickly, rushing to the grate. She leaned down and pressed her ear against the metal, ignoring the shiver that passed through her body from the cold plate.

"Who did it?"

"No one knows! But listen to this—she was found hanging from the catwalks from a red lasso. They say the directors walked in and saw her hanging there when they were opening the theatre, as if it were a show or something!"

"How very macabre! So what're they going to do?"

"I heard they might make some ballet rat the Prima—can you even believe it? I would be more qualified!"

"Oh, I'm sure. But who says it was murder? Who says she didn't just off herself?"

"Don't' be ridiculous—what kind of girl would kill herself after getting the role of Prima Donna at the Opera Garnier!"

Christine pushed herself off the ground, suddenly finding it immensely difficult to breathe. She took in several gasping breaths, clutching at her chest as she willed herself to calm down.

As if on cue, there was a soft knock on her door followed by Raoul's voice calling out her name.

"Come in," she choked, swallowing with difficulty in hopes of appearing mildly composed.

"Christine!" he exclaimed as soon as he entered the room, clearly aware of her heightened state. "What ever is the matter?"

"Annabelle! She's dead!" Christine cried, her hand flying to her mouth to stop a sob from escaping her lips.

"You've heard…" Raoul murmured after a moment, rushing towards her and embracing her tightly.

"You knew? And you didn't tell me?" she exclaimed in horror, wrenching herself away. "And Meg! What if he hurts Meg!"

"He? Now, you're making a vast assumption when you presume that this was Erik's doing."

"Don't be stupid," she spat, shaking her head. "It was him. Raoul, I must see Meg! I must warn her!"

"There's nothing to warn about, Christine. Please, be sensible about this," Raoul reassured, trying once again to wrap his arms around her.

She escaped his grasps again, though, and took a deep breath. "I cannot stay in this house knowing that my best friend is in danger. Please!"

He was silent for several moments. "You know I cannot deny you anything," he finally said with a sigh. "The managers are having a ball this weekend. They're hoping some extravagant event will make the...Tragedy…Appear less scandalous." She heard his hair swish as he shook his head in what she hoped was disapproval. "They're spending a veritable fortune on the event so that the ticket sales for Faust won't be affected."

"We'll go, then?" she asked slowly, her heart finally beginning to slow down.

"If that's what you want," was his reluctant reply, and Christine let out a breath of relief.

"Thank you."

Raoul hadn't told her it was a masquerade ball until a few hours before it was to begin. She had a sneaking suspicious that this was precisely the reason he had allowed her to attend—she only had to make her identity known to those he prescribed. To maintain her shrouded identity, he instructed her maids to pin back her hair, obscuring the curls that distinguished her from her colleagues. He provided a mask as well, presumably matching the dress he had bought her the day before.

As they rode in his carriage en route to the theatre, Christine sat quietly in her bulky crinoline cage, fingering the mask in her lap. No one had bothered to describe her dress or mask to her, and so she was left to imagine what she must look like. Raoul instructed her they were meant to be the king and queen of a chessboard, which she assumed was his last minute solution to creating characters for two cream-colored ensembles.

The mask was ornate and deftly sculpted to flatter the face. She could feel the glittered paint that marked the eyebrows, and the small beads extending from the eyes, creating intricate patterns down the sides of the mask. He had bought masks with ribbons, perhaps so that it would be attached to her face, making it more difficult to reveal her identity.

He claimed that this precaution was only to minimize the scandal, but she knew it was his last ditch effort to keep her away from any conniving phantoms that should be lurking about the ballroom.

It was a welcome change to hear the ecstatic chatter of the other guests when they entered the hall. She had been cooped up for far too long with mere gossip to keep her company, and the familiar voices of the dancers and opera goers alike made her heart soar.

Raoul insisted on dancing with her for every number, assuring her that if he saw Meg, he would inform Christine. It didn't stop her from asking periodically, reminding him that she only came to speak with her friend. He seemed to be far too caught up in the atmosphere to hear her, though.

It had been upwards of an hour before Raoul finally left her side to fetch two flutes of champagne. He instructed Christine to remain near one of the far walls of the ballroom and told her that he would be back shortly. She stood still, obedient as ever, vaguely curious as to whether anyone would approach her, or if anyone had recognized her. As if reading her mind, she felt someone walking in her direction, stopping deliberately before her.

"May I have this dance?" The voice was unfamiliar, but somehow she didn't hesitate to lift her hand and allow him to take it temperately.

Before she knew what was happening, she was twirling about the dance floor with a stranger amongst the many other couples, while Raoul remained pleasantly far from her mind.

"May I ask your name, Monsieur?" she said, her voice significantly louder than usual to cut above the buzz of the group.

"What are you meant to be?" he responded, but she was only taken aback by his avoidance for a moment.

"A queen. Like in chess," she replied automatically, unable to help the smile on her face. He had such a pleasant voice, lower than most men's and with an inexplicable lull. "My fian—…" she began, but stopped immediately, swallowing. "I couldn't think of anything else to do with a white dress."

He chuckled in response, and she could feel some sly remark on the tip of his tongue that he chose not to voice. "Chess? Do you play?"

"Never have," she mused, unable to quell the hint of dizziness that was creeping into her senses as they waltzed. "I'm blind, you see, and so I can't play. Or if I did, someone would have to be patient enough to remind me of where all the pieces were, and that wouldn't be enjoyable for anyone," she joked, but he didn't laugh.

"I've always loved chess. It's a beautiful game." The song ended and for a moment they stopped, clapping obligatorily before another piece began and they were once more on the move. "In chess, there are all of these curious words to notate various moves and stages of play," he continued, to which Christine simply furrowed her brow. "My favorite is the endgame."

"Endgame?" she echoed without thought.

"It's the point of the game where neither side has won, but the outcome is decided." Without her knowing it, her mouth had run dry and her pulse had accelerated. "Both competitors are in play, but one is simply going through the motions of the final moves, awaiting his demise. It's the ultimate inevitably. Very poetic."

Christine tried to take a deep breath to steady herself, but her corset restricted this and she was left taking short quick breaths.

"Beautiful ring you have there. Who's it from?"

She had forgotten about the ring that hung on a chain around her neck, and responded after a gulp. "I really must be going," she stammered, trying to pull herself from his grasp while he held on tightly.

"Now, where could you possibly want to go?" he queried simply. She felt his gloved hands against her, clasped with an iron grip that made her gasp. "You never answered me," he continued pleasantly, in stark opposition to his hold on her.

"It's from my f-father," she said quickly, her mind racing with what she could possibly do to escape this.

"Your father? He must be quite rich to afford such an exquisite jewel." His voice was changing into one she recognized too well, and it was making her sick. "But your father was a musician, was he not? Unless he was Verdi himself, I do not think he could afford such extravagance."

His voice was moving away from the space around her, now only resonating in a whisper near her ear.

"Verdi …He wrote Aida, did he not? Now, you must have had an extraordinary teacher to prepare you for such an enormous role as Prima…"

"Stop it Erik, let me go," she whispered, tears stinging her eyes as her breath shook.

"Not today…" he murmured, the chill in his voice sending shivers up his spine.

At this moment, he stopped their dance and encircled her waist tightly with one arm. Her first instinct was to break free, but his grip held her in place.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he boomed, and she listened as the thunderous talk diminished to silence as Erik's magnified voice reverberated through the hall. "Forgive me for interrupting the festivities, but we have a few things to discuss!" Several murmurs could be heard, but they stopped immediately as he continued on.

"Perhaps you have all forgotten me in the wake of the new Opera, but I do not like to be ignored. For those who may not know me, I am the ever distinguished and highly acclaimed fantôme de l'opéra—ah, yes, that is a name you know. I'll admit my reputation does precede me."

When Christine heard heavy footsteps rushing towards them, she didn't know whether to struggle to escape or press herself tighter to Erik. It was Raoul who called out her name as she heard him pushing people aside.

"Ah, Monsieur de Chagny, I would not take a step further seeing as I hold something so very precious to us both. We wouldn't want any more accidents around this opera."

Another wave of whispers made Erik chuckle before turning to her, speaking lowly in her ear. "Yes, Christine, take off your mask. No reason to hide that beautiful face."

She lifted her shaking hands to the mask and pulled the ribbons before delicately removing it from her features. More whispers. More gaping stares—yes, she didn't need to see them for she could feel them boring into her.

"Now I'm sure you've heard of the unfortunate accident concerning the new Prima Donna—you wouldn't be here tonight trying to patch it up if you hadn't," Erik laughed, the serenity in his voice chilling her to the bone. "Since we have no one to miraculously replace her for the role of Marguerite…" His hold on her tightened as he said this, ensuring that she didn't miss the stab. "I have decided that we will change the opera to fill our next slot of the season!

"Don Juan Triumphant! Don't worry your little heads, you haven't heard of it—it is of my own creation, over twenty years in the making. And my lovely student, Christine, will be my Prima Donna."

There was an explosion of utterances, and the dull roar made Christine wince. Why wasn't anyone acting? The bane of their existence was standing, flesh and blood, before them…Yet they did nothing! And somehow, she still couldn't shake the comfort she found in knowing she would not go back to Raoul's home…

"For those of you who actually come to the opera to watch," he roared over their voices, and they went silent. "Don Juan Triumphant tells the story of the seduction of a young maiden…Something you Frenchmen should know plenty about," he commented wryly.

His hand loosened slightly and she didn't know how to react; that is, until she felt a finger gently touch her necklace, causing her to take a sharp intake of air.

"Be careful when you're playing with fire, ma mie," he muttered to her, and even as she opened her mouth to speak, she couldn't force words from her throat. "Let the endgame begin."

And all at once, he was no longer holding her. She reached in a sort of desperation in front of her, but he was nowhere to be found…He had disappeared.

All at once, people rushed towards her as if they feared she would faint, grabbing at her shoulders and her back. Raoul pushed his way through, though, and held her close. She was flooded with a sense of relief as people finally began to move away, even though she knew it was only to gossip and collude.

Raoul pulled her to the side of the ballroom, all the while whispering things that she did not hear. Her head was flooded with Erik's voice, and she simply could not get him out of her mind. Right when he began ensuring that she would not leave the confines of his house and would be safe, she tore the necklace from her neck and placed it in his hand.

"What are you doing?" he demanded incredulously.

"I can't keep that," she blurted out, but closed her eyes for a moment in hopes of gathering her thoughts. "I cannot wear it whilst the opera rehearses."

"But you will not attend those rehearsals—you can't possibly suggest jeopardizing your safety like that! You know he will be everywhere!"

"I must. I can't risk him hurting anyone else on my behalf. Please understand that I have no other choice, Raoul." She forced a sense of finality into her voice, hoping that it would prompt him to agree.

He placed his hand on her cheek and she felt the regret pulsating from his touch. "You know I love you," he murmured almost inaudibly.

Christine closed her eyes once again, knowing what she was meant to say in return. All she could manage, though, was a soft, "I know."

They left the ball almost immediately, and Christine unwillingly travelled back to his house. Against his pleas, she maintained that she would live in the Opera House once again, and that she was only returning presently in order to gather her things. She could not risk Erik's wrath, and what's more, she could not live another day in the de Chagny mansion. Naturally, she kept the latter bit from him, and he once again conceded, leaving them in tense silence for the remainder of the journey.

But no matter what she tricks her mind played as they ambled along in the carriage, she could not get that one word to escape her thoughts:

Endgame.

Hands down my favorite chapter to write thus far—I've been waiting in such vast anticipation to finally get to this part of the story! Please let me know what you think, and thank you again for all of the past reviews!

Until next time,

Christine