Chapter 7

She is beautiful. She does not know it, not really. I m sure she is humble; the way she looks at herself in the mirror each morning shows her proud, but not overtly so. I cannot help but look at her and be humbled, myself. I wish I could show her, but no visual art could hope to capture her subtleties, the nuance of what exactly makes her beautiful. It is more than just her face, her hair, it is also how she holds herself, how those sweet eyes look out on the world. No image could capture even a tenth of her.

No, but music can.

Her heart is troubled, and how I long to ease that suffering. I am the lord of music- hear how it bends to my will, to my very desires. It can sing her praises, literally, more perfectly than any other medium. More than words alone, more than portraits or sculptures, more than essays or poetry could ever describe her- music understands. I understand, and through music, I have been able to express that I do!

And now she is here, with me. For now, it is only a dream place, a pocket made of wishes and hopes that cannot be voiced, but soon they will be much more than that. She is almost asleep in the dream, so at peace with herself, with me, that the world is little more than a comfortable yet formless eternity, made of smoke and bubbles and music. She does not realize it, but a majority of the music here is from her own heart, and it is beautiful. I can barely keep up on the violin, with my own voice, it is so different from my own.

But I suppose that it is in this way that I find her music beautiful, that because it is not mine, it is all the more enchanting. I have heard the songs of so many people's hearts, and they are all wicked, vile, corrupt songs that sing of their greed and envy and hatred. Not Christine. Her song is only a call for peace, and not only for herself, oh no. The sweet child asks for peace for everyone and everything, and it is a sound I have never known.

My own song is wicked, and full of longing, though I daresay it is tempered with patience and understanding of the workings of the world, if not patience for the people in it. I want to be understood, more than anything, just like her, and my song reflects this. In this way our songs fit perfectly together. We have a fundamental understanding of each other, the depth and nuances of that understanding yet to be explored, but there, definitely there.

As her song comes to a lull, a natural quiet, she seems to be dreaming within this dream more than ever. I slow the whisper of the violin and approach, wondering what she's thinking. In coming closer, I hear now that her song has only softened, not died down into silence. She is at peace here, finally away from painful memories she doesn't need with friends who cannot understand her and a quest she need not embark on. She is home, she is safe. I hear our heartsongs resonate, and it is intoxicating how right it feels.

"You alone can make my song take flight…" I sing softly, unable to stop myself. For a moment I am afraid I've tampered with the songs too much, but they both dance with this new idea, blossoming out into the dream, turning it into something more, something substantial.

The world morphs into a dreamy masquerade of snow and marble, with scores of people in gowns and masks, dancing and drinking, their words a hum of nonsense. They are unimportant.

Like a dancer at the beginning of the ballet, she rises, her attire changing to fit the dream with an innocent glimmer of magic. The scene sets itself, ready to play at her will.

Christine is beautiful, and she is the only thing that is so wholly good in this, or any world. I must protect her, not only for my own sake, for I do fully believe she is the only one who can understand me on a fundamental level, as I do her, but for her sake as well. She is an angel, and the world of man will destroy her. I have seen her future, and it is wrought with strife and struggle, the greatest source of which is the loss of her family.

I cannot let such things destroy her. I will protect her. I must keep her here to do so, and I will do anything to make her stay.

Anything.

~{(Christine)}~

The perfect dream of rest and stillness changes. It was so calm, so still, and then those words changed it. They conjured up thoughts and hopes and images of things and the dream changed. I cannot fight it, so I must adapt, but I don't want to. I could have slept forever, perfect and one with that song. It was mine, it was me, and now it's gone, changed into something new.

I don't know who I am here. Here there are others, and they dance and swirl across a crowded room, silver and glitter lining everything. I don't know who I am here. Before I was someone, I was defined, but here, here I am lost. There is no definition in the perpetual movement, in the soft hum of voices whispering lovely nonsense to each other. There is no definition, and I am lost in the crowd, like a gas in space, forever expanding and shapeless without anything to contain me. These people and this place do not define me, so who am I?

I drift through the dancing and the talking like a ghost. No one talks to me, and I like it that way. What would I say? I feel as though I am nothing, I know nothing, and there is very little that a nothing could say to something that is anything at all.

I feel.. radiant. The music is still there, in hushed undertones to the new sounds of this storybook gathering, and I do not feel so empty as the greater before, when there was no music at all, when I was a dot in a sea with nothing to cling to, but when it is so distant, I find myself yearning for it. Closer, I want it closer. Give it back.

But the dream stays here, like a movie you can't stop or walk away from. This is the scene, and I've got to play it through.

It's not so bad, I suppose. I do feel beautiful in this extravagant gown, white with all manner of silver and crystal softly decorating it. It's not so bad to feel beautiful, but I think I would still rather feel peaceful numbness, feel sleep. This dream is nice enough for now, but I will want to return eventually. I feel out of place, even though it is my own dream, and I suppose that is because of my own lack of identity, and the abundance of masked faces around me as well. There are animal and insect masks, full human face-masks, half masks, masks that are decorated only with paint, others are set with precious stones, others are covered in fanciful protrusions. They are all white, however, so as to keep with the theme. White and silver and the barest hint of grey, and no color.

I am in a fancy ball gown, also white. The dress is enormous, but it fits wonderfully. Because the gown is so large, no one should be able to see my steps, and I feel like I'm floating. My hair is pinned up, but only in a way that accentuates my natural curls, rather than trying to hide them. I feel a small weight on my head, perhaps a crown? I have a ring on the middle finger of each hand as well, silver with blue stones. I would appear to fit right in.

However, I appear to be the only one not wearing a mask here, and though I can discern this, I do not feel ashamed of it. Why should I wear a mask in my own dream, after all? I think I have worn a mask most of my life, and now I do not know how to define myself- that's why I need the dream, after all. The dream and the music. Yes, they know me, they can define me. They are all I need. They are the mask that tells me who I am now.

Where is he? Now that I walk this gala, I know there should be someone here, and he isn't. I search the faces hidden behind plaster for him, but I don't see him. I need him- why is he so distant? I can hear him, still, in that undertone of music, but as I have stated, I need him closer, I need understanding, definition. I need his contrast to know myself, and maybe, in turn, I can know him. I feel like I do, and is it bad that I want to stay that way as long as possible? To be numb but aware of myself, is that wrong? Why does he stay away?

I am almost hurt with frustration, with desperation- where is he?- but when I turn he's there. He's charcoal grey in this sea of snowy gowns. His mask is black. This is definition, this is understanding. I feel his song define me, as well as it defines him, and I feel right again.

"Music." I whisper, relieved as he takes me into a dance, one hand guiding us like the bow of a mighty ship cutting gently through waves. He says nothing, his warm, golden orange eyes simply meeting my own. The sound, the marvelous sound of his heart returns, and I know myself. Though the dream stays the same, I find that peace is back. I could dance forever, because now I'm whole again.

Gently, he holds me, and though he is the 'lead', I feel as though he is letting me guide him just as much as he guides me. If I pull, he does not resist. If I stride out, so does he. We are well in tune with each other, and I feel balanced, and far more graceful than I can ever recall being on my own. Have I ever been alone before? I can't tell, but I am sure I would not like it.

I have to crane to look up at him, the ashen mask calmly emoting. He's a head taller than me, but I don't feel small. I feel equal. I feel whole.

As we twirl through the party, moving fluidly like doves amongst ducks, I rest my head against his chest. There is nothing better than to be everything and nothing in a moment of perfect harmony that will never cease.

"Christine." I hear him inhale sharply. I pull my head back. 'Christine'? What is that sound? What does it mean? In all the language of music, I have no knowledge of what this sound means. Is it a word? What use have we of meager, finite human language, when we have music? I look at him curiously, but he seems stunned. I can hear it. The peace is gone from him, he's anxious, almost hurt. Have I done something?

I can hear my song ask what's wrong, concern rising in me like a language of its own. His song denies it, pushes it away, says 'only you', as if his part in the song is not important. But it is! Who am I without it? What is anything without it? I don't know, can't even pretend to comprehend, and I don't want to. I don't want to go back to not knowing, and so I cling harder to him, but his song whines- it whines!

What's wrong, what's wrong? Oh it aches, I can feel something in him breaking? Did I do this? As much as I cling, as much as I want to know and understand, he pulls back- afraid of that which I know he wants, which is exactly what I want, too. So I let him go. He draws back into the sea of white, which, in our mutual fear and worry, turns to a snowy wasteland around us.

He disappears in the haze of falling snow only a few feet away from me. As he disappears from sight, his song disappears too, and I have never felt more alone.

In the wake of his presence, his absence is a mad curse on me. I feel myself slipping away. Who am I? Who am I? I don't know, I don't know. I am cold, but it is not from the winter that's suddenly sprung up around me. Who am I when I'm alone? Who am I without contrast, without a partner to play off?

I feel sick, lost, and the winter storm around me only grows in response. A strange, creeping sensation of having felt this way begins to overtake me. No, I don't want to remember, I don't want to go back. I want to sleep, I want to rest, I want to be understood and I want nothing to be asked of me. Is that too much?

The world warps around me, snow falling in every direction at once, like a broken snow globe. I walk, numbly but in the wrong way, until a new shape emerges from the white out. My head aches, my heart reels, but I decide keep going. I do not want to remember, but if I must remember to set us right, then I will. Something has to change, and if he won't come back, then I will have to do the changing, because neither of us can live in a dream like this. The snow assaults me, but I keep going.

I must save us.

~{(Erik)}~

No, no! I ran, out of fear. She was too close, too good, and I wanted nothing more than to hold her there forever! Nothing more, nothing less than to be in that understanding glow of affection, and I ran. As good as she is, am I not wicked? I could not hurt her, could I? I have never and could never dream of harming her… And yet the fear that I would, that perhaps I already had, made me sick, made me run. In running, my grasp on that which she wished away lessened, and now she wanders through this nightmare ever closer to remembering.

I must protect her from those memories, for here they would destroy her. I send the snow harder, fiercer, to ward her away but she proceeds. I have muted my own song to protect her, but hers is still so clear to me. She carries on out of a sense of duty, and I cannot bear it. Such compassion, and for me! Me!

She draws nearer to the edge of the dream, her desire to 'fix' this giving her more and more control, weakening the very nature of this place. It is feeling and desire and want, but she wants more than it can give, more than I am willing to let her have. For her own sake, she must turn back, and yet she does not! I send winds howling at her, pushing her back, but she persists. No, no! I can feel her will against mine, and I find it impervious. She draws nearer-

~{(Christine)}~

Finally, as though a scene change, the snow dies and disappears, flakes fading out of existence before even striking the ground. The air is tense, but I continue. Finally, it is revealed.

The shape is a grave, a headstone with flowers as fresh as if they were just picked and placed there. There is grass around it, and were it not for my own feet still crunching the snow, I might have sworn it was spring. My head hurts, beats a little harder, and I find myself anxious. But this, whatever it is, is the problem, or part of it. Or perhaps it is the solution? I'm not sure, but I know that I must do something, and this seems to be the only thing to do. I approach hesitantly.

The black granite grave shines with fresh polish, and the grass on top is still loose. It would appear that it was just dug. A small figure kneels, I now see, or perhaps she just appeared? She's crying.

Something in my own mind asks me to turn back, but I know I can't, not now. It's not even about Music anymore. True, I still want to help him, but suddenly he is not the center of my drive. It's about me. Me?

I forgot I was a person on my own- I still feel… strange, being on my own, but I remember. At least, I'm starting to. I feel as if I have known this sensation before, but it's hard to remember anything beyond the immediate past. It's returning, slowly. Myself, my identity. It's hard, but I am a person on my own, have been before this moment, I know I know how to be my own person. I still think that who I am is a bit muddled, but is that not just the age I am? Yes, I'm young, aren't I? I'm still growing, still becoming myself, so it's surely not so strange to not yet know myself entirely.

The figure turns. I gasp, because it's me.

I remember, I remember!

The faded, ghostly double of myself seems to freeze like a statue, a portrait of a time that has passed. I don't want to, but I force myself to read the name on the grave, to confirm what I think I remember.

The name on the grave is Daae. Gustave Daae. My father.

I fall to my knees, softly in the snow, crying out of recalling his loss. Years of my youth return to me at once, making the sting of absence all the worse. I'm not sure how to move on from this, and yet…

The world shifts around me, the grave being swept away like ink in water, and I am standing in front of a mirror. The me in the mirror looks lost, pathetic. I look beautiful, maybe even haunting in a way, the kind of ethereal 'perfect' beauty you see in magazines or movies, but in those eyes, I am lost. I am a shadow, not quite a person, not quite real on my own. I look physically wrong without someone next to me. Is that me? Is that who I am? This whole time I've been wondering if I was an archetype in a story but was I asking the right question? Maybe I should have been asking if I knew myself at all, because this doesn't look like the person I want to be, the person I thought I actually was. This, this is a misconstrued glimpse of me, and yet..

"Is this really me?" Am I really… so dependent? It's true that I will always miss my father, but do I need him to function? I've been acting like I do! This trick mirror seems to think I do! But.. just like a moment ago, I remember that I am my own person, I am independent of him, always have been, that's what children are. My life did not end because his did, and though I may not enjoy that he is gone, why have I thought that I must stop living because he has? He was my inspiration to live, and live happily; he would despair if he knew that I let him inspire anything else!

The mirror image changes, and the party gown is stripped away, revealing my normal wear- hair down, makeup gone, pants and shirt and vest all returned. Yes, this is me! I'm still growing, I'll make mistakes, and I'll have to learn who I am in a world without my father, but I'll be fine! I am…

I am Christine!

My name, at last, returns to me as well, and I feel complete, as real as I've ever been. It feels wonderful, to reaffirm your identity, and despite the heartache, I feel a little stronger too. And then I remember everything else. Everything that led to this- the wish, the deal, the quest, and…

.. and Erik.

He appears behind the mirror like a ghost, his image half dark behind mine. I put my hand on the glass, which ripples like water. With the expression on his magic mask, a lost, hurt, desperate expression, I know that he knows I remember everything. What now, is the question in both our minds. Damn the labyrinth- I've somehow undone the wish. So how do we proceed? What game are we playing if the rules of the old one no longer apply?

Shaking, one of his hands drifts to shadow mine on the other side of the glass. His fingers are so spindly, so long and fragile looking. His golden orange eyes look familiarly pained, mouth parted ever so slightly, like he wants to say something but can't find the right way to express himself. He looks so tired, so exhausted from things I'll never know. I suddenly understand why it is a mirror that separates us. He is just like me. He doesn't know who he is on his own, only in reaction with other people. He feels broken unless there's someone to define himself against. In this way, he sees himself in me. He understands my pain because it's his as well, or something close enough. And so he chose me to be, what? His perfect opposite? It's true that I understand him, somehow, in ways I did not and still do not completely know, but what does he want from me? What is my function within this purpose, that is, how does he think I'm supposed to go about doing it? Stay here? With him? With someone who, though is much like myself, is still a stranger? Why not just ask me? Why not do anything other than what he did? I don't understand his choice to play a game when we could have.. talked.

My eyes drift down from the hand on the glass to the one at his side- the one that holds my violin. I shoot my gaze immediately back at him, staring him in the eyes. I want it back. Above all else, that violin is my father's last earthly possession, and rightfully mine, wish be damned.

My expression must change, for his does as well. He recoils- fear, anxiety. He grips the violin a little more firmly, taking his hand back. I press my other hand against the glass. I want it back, I want to scream. With my approach, he retreats. His face, that is, the mask which acts as a face, hardens to a steely, determined, yet bitter look. He holds the violin to his chest.

He means to keep it, and me, here forever.

I glare at him. It is to be war, then? He glares back, essentially answering 'yes'. I press against the glass.

Let it be war, then. I know who I am now, a little better than before. I am Christine Daae, daughter of Gustave Daae, and I am defiant. I am not my father, but I am what he raised. I am kind, but not complacent or compliant. I am helpful, but not a tool for others' happiness only. I am understanding, but not an enabler. I am not a mirror, I am not a doll who needs to have her life decided for her or without her consent, and I am not a solution to someone else's problems. I am a person, and I will decide for myself what I do with my life from here on forward, and I have decided that I will leave this labyrinth with my violin.

I step back from the glass. I will win this war.

"Erik." His name tastes like iron. He raises his head, his breathing harsh.

"Yes, Christine?" He hisses my name, and I am not sure if it is in anger or disappointment, and I certainly don't know who or what either is directed at.

"I will solve the labyrinth." I declare, and as he growls and then roars, yelling wordlessly on the other side, the glass shatters, and then the dream. I feel myself falling, physically, but for once I am unafraid. I didn't realize before how nervous I was, until now, when I feel only confidence at the task ahead of me.

It's more like waking up than landing, but I know what happened, or, I know what it felt like. I push myself up from the ground, a new wasteland of forgotten memories in the form of toys and trinkets spread for miles around. However, it appears to be the backyard of the city, for I am closer than ever. Shaking on uneven piles of priceless personal treasures turned junk, I rise up. The sun, which had not moved all day from its place low in the sky, is high, and burning a strange, almost electric orange, staining the sky a blood red. The clouds are dark, full of turmoil. I can feel his anger in the air.

Well, I hope he can feel mine, because I'm coming for him.