Christine weakly stumbled out of the phaeton. She glanced around the empty cemetery, her gaze settling on the many snow-covered statues ahead of her. The icy dry air had brought tears to her brown eyes, and she absently wiped them away with the back of one cold hand. The singer slowly walked forward, and words from her childhood immediately came to mind when she saw the frosty carving of an angel on someone's grave. "Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing." She whispered, remembering the dying bouquet of roses in her hand. She brought them to her face, but they didn't have a scent. "Her father promised her he'd send her the Angel of Music..." The girl laughed at the irony at the simple words, then repeated, "Her father promised her...." Her voice grew cold at his failed promise, and she at last whispered, "Her father promised her." She suddenly wanted to nothing more than to just talk to her father. To hear his simple, kind words and be reassured like a little girl. And like so many times when she had troubles, she sang.
"You were once my one companion, you were all that mattered....You were once my friend and father, then my world was shattered." She used the tune that the Phantom had played so many months ago, when she had stayed with him after her debut. It was wistful and sweet, and nothing sounded more right to her at that moment in the snowy graveyard. She continued singing,pouring her heart out, letting all of her fears and sorrows echo around her. Once her throat felt like ice was being poured down it, she stopped walking and singing and surveyed the area around her. Gray sky, light snow covering every surface, the cold veiled faces of statues glaring down on her. In the distance, church bells rang out. She gave a soft laugh and whispered, "Passing bells and sculpted angels, cold and monumental. They seem for you the wrong companions, you once were warm and gentle."
A chilling wind blew through and her thin cloak billowed around her. She shivered, and could not stop herself from running nearer to her father's mausoleum in the distance. Anger that had been building in her the last few months finally came out, and she sang, nearly screaming, "Too many years fighting back tears! Why can't the past just die?!" She stopped, about ten feet in front of the violist's grave, and threw down the bouquet she had been so faithfully holding.
The words she next sang were directed to herself, and served as a prayer to her father. As she ran, a true and scary thought had entered her head. She knew that if she could let go of the memory of her father, she could let go of her strange,over-powering pull towards the Phantom. "No more memories, no more silent tears! No more gazing across the wasted years...." Her anger had faded as she had walked closer to the mausoleum. She turned back and gently picked up the roses she had previously thrown. The soprano slowly walked forward again. As Christine stood on the first step of the tomb, she only felt biting regrets and a searing cold sorrow. It over-whelmed her tired body as she stumbled up a few more steps, then cried. "Help me say goodbye.." Her first plea to say goodbye had been to her father, then she repeated, "Please, help me say good-bye!" She had addressed her father to help her be immune to the Opera Ghost.
With her own voice still echoing around, she sank down on the steps. Her curly head slumped forward, and she cried into the bouquet of roses, lost in misery. The softest bits of cold snow fell on the top of her head, and trailed down her face like tears. Then the most, gentle angelic voice called out to her. "Wandering Child; so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance..." She looked up, startled yet excited. The last time she had heard that achingly beautiful voice, she had rejected him in the most horrible of ways. Her heart racing, she thought, Will I just be deceived again by the false Angel? I just wished to forget about him! But why does my heart race so? Why do I long for him to return to me? Which disguise will the deceiver take?
Torn and dazed, she managed to finally answer, " Angel or Father, Friend or Phantom? Who is it there, staring?"
She cautiously raised her head from the bouquet and gazed around in a skeptical sort of awe as he answered, "Have you forgotten your angel?" She vehemently shook her head. His ethereal voice was making Christine feel joyous yet sleepy. It was the feeling of the spell he always put on her when he sang. She knew that she was falling in far too deep, but still wanted him to be there with her. "Angel, oh speak, what endless longings echo in this whisper!"
"Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my far-reaching gaze!" His voice had grown even more lovely, and had also gained some power. Then, to Christine's amazement, a warm, rich light had begun to shine behind the mausoleum's wrought-iron door's. She rose slowly, and voiced her last coherent thoughts. "Wildly my mind beats against you...Yet the soul obeys!" And the two began to sing together, their fantastic voices blending in one timeless duet. The dazed soprano had risen once she had sang her first words, and slowly began ascending towards the entrance to the mausoleum. The light had only grown stronger and warmer as she had walked closer, and the doors had also slowly began to open. When she sang the words she had once had nightmares with, "Turning from true beauty," The light began to glow about her and heat her cold skin. Christine felt as if she had never been happier, and ecstatically raised her arms out to the voice. She was lost to the magic of his godly voice. Then he began to call, " Come to your Angel of Music," with a low and persuasive tone. Christine needed no further encouragement, and began to walk forward once again, her arms slowly falling to her sides, and her lids lowering. His voice came from the inside of the mausoleum, and in her state, she actually believed that her father might also be inside to greet her, as well as the protecting Angel of Music.
But then there was a terrible cry of; "Christine, wait!" Raoul was charging into the cemetery astride a huge white horse, clad only in his light underclothes. She sleepily blinked at him when he continued to yell, "This man, this thing, is not your father!!" She turned back to her father's grave, at last able to think. She was about to retort, "Of course he's not my father!", when she heard a mighty roar and saw a huge,swirling black form descended from the mausoleum roof. "Raoul!" She manage to call in fright as the black shadow ran towards her fiancee, a deadly sword already gleaming ahead of him. Raoul had already dismounted, and pulled out a sword. The two furious men began to engage in a power play that could only end in tragedy.
Christine watched in horror as they fought. The Phantom was aggressive and terrifying in his rage, and the young Vicomte had a hard time defending against his constant thrusts. The young soprano stood helplessly at the steps to the mausoleum, and the men, oblivious in their hate-induced state, continued to fight on sacred graves. In shock, she stopped seeing the fight, and instead pictured a great stage. The Phantom was singing with his flawless voice, but was unmasked and beautiful. From the side of the stage Christine then joined him, and they sang together. When Christine's part finished, she went out to the audience and into Raoul's waiting arms, while the Phantom smiled fondly at them, then returned to his crowd of admirers.
A horrible, pain-fulled screech pulled the girl out of her sick fantasy. Raoul's arm was bleeding, the bright red a contrast to his snowy shirt and the gray skies. The Phantom only mockingly laughed at the wounded Vicomte. Then Raoul, spurred by the wrenching pain in his arm and the thought of his love, began to attack the Opera Ghost with a strength he hadn't known he possessed, and finally managed to disarm his opponent. He kicked the Phantom to the icy ground and raised his sword.
"No, Raoul!" Christine screamed and took an involuntary step towards the men. "No, not like this." She continued in a more subdued tone after Raoul lowered his sword. The younger man ignored the burning pain in his arm and mounted the horse, pulling Christine to safety up with him. As they rode away, Christine turned and looked back at her fallen Angel. Though they were far apart, she could still see the hatred in his eyes, and her hands limply let go of the crushed rose petals she had grasped so tightly during the heated fight. They fell behind in the snow, looking like drops of blood.
Once the shaken couple returned to the opera house, Christine fled from Raoul. As she ran, she turned back towards the stable once, and saw her love's desolate face, but continued her escape. She went to her room, and found it empty. Greatly relieved, she sank down on the bed, and let all of her cold tears fall. Then she stripped herself of the damp black gown and cloak, and stood, wrapped in just a blanket. She wanted to have nothing to do with the morning, and selected a new outfit; a ruffled skirt of deep purple and a gray blouse. After carefully dressing, she tied the top back of her hair in intricate braids, and put all of her thoughts and efforts in her appearance. Picking up her dark red cloak and tying it around her shoulders, she quickly tip-toed away from the busy opera house and to the cold, crowded streets of Paris. Blending into a merry group of young people, she went into the cafe that neighbored the opera and ordered a hot drink. Throughout the rest of the day, she nursed various drinks, and never left her perch in the back of the outside patio. The girl wistfully watched people leisurely ride through the streets and carriages, laughing couples bundled in layers stroll about, and happy families laughing with their small children. Snow lightly fell, and the heavens were always a soft, dark gray, but when the tiny bit of light began to leave the sky, Christine wearily sighed and payed the for her beverages, then returned to her home.
She sank down to her bed, feeling drained, even though she had not done anything for most of the day. Soon her lids dropped, and she slept. Christine dreamed of angels and demons and all that lay in between, songs of sweet seduction and of cunning betrayals, but most of all, she dreamt of her father.
A short while later, a man appeared at Christine's door. He knocked, softly and lightly, then frowned when he received no answer. He debated himself, then quietly entered the room, to find his fiancee curled up in her bed, looking exhausted but still beautiful in her rare, ethereal sort of lovely. He watched her sleep, a sad smile on his own handsome face. Raoul did not want to wake her up, but he had gotten her the must excellent of surprises to help sooth both their fears. He opened his mouth, just to close it, then took a deep breath and gently sat down next to his love, murmuring gently, "Christine.,,Wake up, my love." And the singer slowly returned to life, opening her large brown eyes and yawning daintily. Her breath smelled faintly of coffee, and her clothes held the tale-tell sign of pastry crumbs, Raoul noted when she tiredly raised her ghostly white arms and stretched. "Hello, dear." Christine finally said once she was awake enough to talk. She was not surprised to find him in her room, though she was shocked that Meg or Mme Giry weren't with also. He smiled, relieved and happy, then scooted closer to his girl, and brushed a stray curl away from her soft face. "I have a surprise for you, Little Lotte." Christine's mood did improve at his playful words. She had always loved surprises.
"You must trust me." Raoul said a few minutes later when he led a blind-folded Christine down from her room . "Of course," the girl hesitantly laughed in response. She felt as if their relationship had undergone something cruel when she had ran away earlier that day, and felt as is she was walking on eggshells with Raoul, even though he was being terribly kind. They beautiful couple hadn't walked very far when the Vicomte tugged Christine to a stop. "We are here," he simple stated, then said, "Let me help you with the blindfold." She let him untie the silk cloth, then blinked at the dim candlelight. She smelled sweet hay and horse. Once the singer's brown eyes adjusted, she peered into the open stall in front of her. The shape of an elegant horse shone in the shadows ahead. Christine turned back towards Raoul with a questioning expression.
"Yes, my love. This horse is yours now!" With a candle in his hand, he joyfully let more light into the dim stall. The horse waiting there made both their mouths drop. She was huge; long and lean with elegant limbs and a glossy black coat. Her wavy mane fell to her withers, the tips of her thick tail flirted with the shavings on the stall floor. The mare slowly turned her midnight-colored face towards the couple, then craned her long neck towards Christine, her dainty ears sliding forward on her head. Christine, as if in a trance, slowly came to the beast with her whites hands outstretched. The horse completed the distance between them and gently snuffled into Christine's palms. That was when the girl noticed the white silken halter on the equine's head. It bore a tiny silver nameplate engraved with "Lady Godiva" in looping letters. Christine laughed with delight as the mare continued to fondle her hand, and Christine brought her other palm up and cautiously began to stroke the horse's silky mane.
"Godiva," she breathed, a soft and peaceful smile on her face for the first time that day. The mare, in turn, cast her intelligent eyes to her young girl and also seemed perfectly at ease.
A stunned Raoul watched the whole exchange. He had bought Christine a small, dainty mare of golden coloring and a sweet, calm disposition. The mare's tack had been of feminine white leather and a purple saddle pad, the mare and her tack made up the perfect lady's horse. The majestic mare that now resided in the same stall was a horse HE would ride, a horse that could look perfectly at ease on a battle-field or out on a hunt. When his Christine had approached the horse, his heart had nearly stopped in fear at how the beast would react. When he had seen how the two got along, his hear still hadn't calmed. While he was glad his love was safe, a boiling anger raced in his blood. The seemingly ill-logical horse swap made perfect sense to him after a few moments of thought.
A huge midnight black horse that already loved Christine,the elegant white silk halter reading "Lady Godiva", it all made sense to him. The cursed Opera Ghost had taken up the chance to toy with his and his lover's lives yet again. "Christine, dearest, I am so glad that you like her." He whispered through clenched teeth. The young opera singer was too enamored with her new mount to notice his strained tone, and replied, "Raoul, she is a dream...But I must ask; why ever did you get me a horse?"
After voicing the question, she returned to whispering follies into the mare's velvety ear. Raoul let out a sigh that more resembled a hiss, then answered, "Darling, I hadn't wanted us to be deceived by that monster yet again. Now, whenever you wish to make a trip, simply call to have your horse saddled and you can ride to your destination...Also, I felt you were in the need of another friend." His last sentence sounded quite girlish and planned, but Christine managed to tear her eyes away from Godiva, and saw the sincerity in his boyish face. "Oh, Raoul!" She exclaimed sweetly, and took her fiancee's lips into her own for a chaste kiss. Then she broke away from the embrace and returned to Godiva, who seemed to adore Christine as much as the girl to her. Raoul watched the girl and the horse for some time before saying, "Sweetling, I'm afraid I must get you to bed now."
Christine nodded, gave Godiva a final kiss on the muzzle, and allowed herself to be led to her room. "Goodnight, Raoul. I really cannot express how much Godiva means to me already." The singer said gratefully, accepted Raoul's goodnight kiss, then retired to her room. Raoul returned to the stable alone. He walked over to Christine's horse and entered the stall. When he tried to approach the mare, she flattened her dainty ears straight against her skull and cast narrow eyes to the Vicomte. He was surprised, then tried to approach again, in a slow and friendly manner. The horse responded in a similar manner as before, then revealed her strong teeth to him and gave a warning sound. "Good God, you positively loathe me!" Raoul gasped in shock. He had never had a creature take a disliking to him in all his bright life. After a third failed attempt, he left the mare's stall and went to where his horse would be waiting. In the place of his large bay gelding was a dainty golden mare, already saddled with white leather and purple fleece. It was the horse he had bought for Christine. "What are you doing here, gal?," he asked in confusion. Then the sound of quiet and triumphant laughter filled his head. His blue eyes widened in fright as the laughter continued, and grew louder and louder. Then voice,such a terrible and beautiful voice, spat, "Young Vicomte, here is the mount that suits you. A feminine little slip of a mare that blindly obeys your weak commands. I took the liberties to give my Angel the mount that most suits her; an innocent creature who belongs to the night. Yes, that sounds just like my Angel....I must confess, I find it rather amusing that you confidently call her your fiancee when her heart, her very soul, belongs to me. And Godiva, whom she already loves, was a gift that I gave. A gift that represents her and I; what we stand for. I wonder how she will react when she realizes you did not give it."
The voice was so enchanting to listen to, but the words being spoken were the very things the Vicomte often worried. Raoul put his hands to his ears and cried, "Stop it! Stop it, you god-damned monster! She does not love you! She hates you! We hate you! Stop it!" Even after his shouts, the voice continued to lash on, though the words were indistinguishable, just one mocking pitch that resonated a lifetime's worth of disdain in one mocking breath. Then finally, he said, "Have you had enough, young Vicomte? I think you should return to your mother's home now. It is safer there, and we don't want you doing anything rash." Raoul's lips tightened, but he did not reply. The Phantom began to laugh again, a cruel and horrible sound that still had tones of ethereal beauty beneath it. "Enjoy your ride home." The Opera Ghost said, while still laughing, then suddenly the candle Raoul had been holding flickered out, and there was silence. Raoul stood in shocked silence for some time, then roused a nearby stable boy and harshly said, " Get this mare to my manor. I do not care how you do it, but just do it, dammit!" Then he searched around for his gelding, till he found him outside the stable, already saddled and ready to return to his warm stall at the De Chagny estate. Shaking his head, Raoul mounted his horse and took off for his home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Later that night~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Christine woke with a start. Her heart was pounding, her head ached, and her sheets were twisted around in a frantic disarray. She let her head sink back down to the pillow slowly, and brought one white hand to brush back her sweaty curls. "Just a nightmare, just a nightmare...." she whispered, and tried to close her eyes and return back to sleep But her attempts were to no avail, and she slowly got out of her wrought-iron bed around an hour later. Giving the briefest glance to the blonde in the bed next to her's, Christine went to her trunk and pulled out a tattered sketchbook. After grabbing a pencil and the blanket from her bed, the soprano left the room. She nearly collapsed into the chair that Raoul had brought there the previous night. Arranging herself in a comfortable position, Christine made a table of her lap and began to draw. Whenever she had nightmares as a little girl, her father had placed the sketchbook into her plump hands and told her to draw the object that so tormented her. Then Christine would sketch it out and feel relieved. She drew for hours, and the images slowly changed from those of horrified terror to tender recollection and follies, then things that would never be. After her hand had gone numb from cramping so much, Christine's auburn head slowly fell back against the chair and she slept once again.
Not more then ten minutes after Christine fell asleep, a man stepped out from the shadows of a hidden hall. He walked with the dangerous grace of a hunter, and his ever-changing eyes were set straight ahead. He had but one destination. He reached her in remarkable time, and was not even the least bit out of breath. He was right about to gently the door when he sensed his love's presence. Wrenching his eyes away from his goal, he saw his Christine! She was draped in a little chair, with a blanket precariously over her knees and much-used book in her little white hands. He smiled at her fondly. She was so lovely, so unpredictable to others. He understood her like no one else. Earlier that night, he had sensed Christine's unrest, and so had waited till he felt she would be asleep again so he could comfort her with a soft song. He ever so carefully smoothed a curl away from her forehead, then lightly reached for her sketchbook. He recalled how Christine would hold up the book to the ceiling when she was little, innocently believing that she was showing an Angel her artwork. He flipped through the detailed drawings till he came to a new image.
It was disturbing; two hands reaching out from utter darkness. One hand was clothed in a leather glove, it was elegant and confident. The other hand was naked; strong, pale and yet faltering, the fingers unsure of how to grab, but still reaching. They were obviously the hands of a man. The Phantom stared at the picture, knowing it was what plagued his innocent soprano's dreams. The dream's meaning was clear to him, and his soul wept. With a heavy heart, he turned to the next page. It was him! He was masked and handsome, wearing a black suit and a cold,proud expression. He was standing next to a faceless woman with auburn curls and a dancer's figure. The woman was seated on the bench of his organ with her hands clenched together, and he had one hand possessively on her shoulder. His soul continued to weep. He turned the next page.
It was an image of Christine herself, with him again. But this picture was different from the first. While the other had a cold, fearful feeling, this one contained only lust and wanton suggestions. "Oh my love," the stunned ghost whispered. Christine was dressed only in a white sheet wrapped around her waist, her bare back facing the drawing's viewer. Her curls were pulled over one creamy shoulder, and her face was angled so you could see just her profile. Her lashes were pointing towards to show her closed eyes, and the faint traces of a seductive smile was just visible. She was not even a foot away from his drawn image. He was in profile, wearing an white shirt that unbuttoned to the waist, and tight black pants. The unmasked side of his face was visible, his dark smile and commanding eyes were on Christine. One hand loosely held the sheet around her waist. They stood in front of a huge mirror, with shadows and red roses strewn across the floor around them.
When Erik finished looking at the drawing, his blood was boiling and his soul could no longer weep. If that was what Christine had nightmares about, then he was quite jealous. To help slow his racing, lusty thoughts, he turned the page again, hating to have to stop viewing that racy picture of them. The next image Christine had drawn the exact opposite of the previous lust filled drawing. What occupied the current page was a picture of Godiva. She was standing in rays of sunlight that shone on her glossy coat, and had her elegant head turned with a sweet expression in her wise eyes. It was a drawing that depicted Christine's love for the horse quite clearly. He smiled, the flipped the page. Nothing. Christine's sketch of Godiva had been the last drawing. The Phantom bestowed the faintest of smiles to his confused love, and stroked her hand. The sleeping girl unwittingly sighed, and he ran another gloved hand over her face, then disappeared into the waiting shadows.
The weak light of dawn weakly shone through the high windows and down into Christine's closed. She wearily opened one eye into the light and mumbled. She brought a hand to cover her eyes. Then she sat up abruptly, gasping. Blood red petals fell off her bone-white face, and a smooth rose hit the wood floor. "Oh God!" Christine cried.
The Phantom had been there placing petals on her face, he the thing that she had wished to escape. Once her heart slowed, she opened her sketchbook as if in a trance. She looked at the pictures she had drawn, and her heart sank at the third image. Why had she drawn that? She only prayed he had not seen her drawings. Or that he had stopped looking at the pictures after the second, when she had clearly expressed her fear at living beneath the opera with him. The singer hesitantly rose from the chair, holding the sketchbook with shaking hands. She kicked the rose down the stairs near the chair, and crushed the rose petals under her bare feet. Then she silently entered her room and dressed in a ivory silk shirtwaist with a flounced navy blue skirt. With a sense of growing dread, she winded a matching ribbon into the top of her hair, which she had pulled into intricate braids. She watched her pale form in the mirror, then turned to the ballerina who was still in bed. Meg was peacefully asleep. Christine left the room and wandered down to the stables. Like a wraith, she was unseen to the stable boys who had recently awoken. She let herself into Godiva's stall and wrapped her arms around the mare's neck, laying her white face against the satiny black of the horse.
When Christine re-entered the opera, it was alive with people. She silently walked, lurking in the shadows and watching others frantically rehearse and build for the opera that would premiere that night. She watched for hours. When the winter light began to wan in the afternoon, she saw a huge crowd of people pass. The big faces in the opera formed the group; Carlotta and Piangi, Mme Giry and Meg, Reyer and the managers. The crowd was led by an impassioned Raoul. He was wearing a long coat of golden leather. She caught the end of his speech, "-But remember we hold the ace! For if Miss Daae sings, then he is certain to attend." The managers seemed to have caught on and interrupted, "We are certain the doors are barred! We are certain the police are there!" Raoul nodded, and replied, "We are certain they are armed!" The whole group seemed to join in as they all shouted, "The curtain falls! His reign will end!"
A stunned Christine stepped out from behind a pillar. Raoul glanced up and saw her hurt, betrayed face. Then the singer turned and ran from him. She ran all the way to the chapel, then collapsed onto the stone floor in front of her father's image. Christine wept a few cold tears, and rose from the floor unto her knees. She brought a white hand up to her face and leaned her aching head against it. She had never felt more lost. Then heavy footsteps echoed above her, followed by a frantic Raoul. "Christine!" He whispered, then entered the chapel when he saw her crouched upon the floor.
"Raoul, I'm frightened. Don't make me do this!" She cried. "It scares me." He went to her, but she remained on the floor and vulnerably stared up at him. "Don't put me through this ordeal by fire. He'll take me, I know! We'll be parted forever..." Her voice was nothing more then a broken whisper. The young Vicomte reached down to her, and she hesitantly accepted his hands and rose to stand with him. Looking seriously into his clear eyes, she broke into a laugh filled with irony and a crazed hurt, murmuring, "What I once used to dream, I now dread!"
Raoul gripped her hands tighter and her eyes cleared. Her laughter ceased, and she firmly whispered, "If he finds me, it won't ever end!" The dashing young man searched into her eyes. They were lucid, but yet Christine seemed miles away. He led her over to the window seat, and they were bathed in colors of the stained glass. In a distorted whisper she sang, "And he'll always be there, singing songs in my head...He'll always be there singing songs in my head..."
"Christine?" Raoul asked, and the girl turned back towards him again. He thought deeply about his next words, then sang his reply. "You said yourself-he is nothing but a man...Yet while he lives, he'll haunt us till we're dead!" He knew the only way to reach Christine was to sing to her. And yet that didn't even seem to pull her out of the darkness of her mind. Turning her beautiful face away from him, Christine sang her thoughts.
"Twisted every way, what answer can I give?" She helplessly turned back to him and continued, "Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live? Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice?" She broke off and shakily rose from the bench, then turned back to her fiancee. "Do I become his prey?" Her face darkened, and her small hands angrily clenched into her voluminous skirts. "Do I have any choice!? He kills without a thought! He murders all that's good! I know, I can't refuse!" She ceased her pacing and finally turned back to her father's shrine. "...And yet, I wish I could...." Her quiet confession came into the otherwise silent chapel, and she gazed at her father's image for strength.
"Oh, God. I've agreed, now what horrors what for me, in this; the Phantom's opera?" Raoul looked at her in wide-eyed pity, then silently rose from the seat. Christine turned from her father's shrine to glance back to Raoul. He opened his arms, and she ran into them. Holding her, he gently sang into her hair, "Christine, Christine, don't think that I don't care!" She cried into his shoulder, and he held her tighter, continuing, "But every hope, and every prayer rests on you now." She nodded against him, and they silently grew strength from one another.