"There are so many ways to be brave in this world. Sometimes bravery involves laying down your life for something bigger than yourself, or for someone else. Sometimes it involves giving up everything you have ever known, or everyone you have ever loved, for the sake of something greater.
But sometimes it doesn't.
Sometimes it is nothing more than gritting your teeth through pain, and the work of every day, the slow walk toward a better life.
That is the sort of bravery I must have now."
― Veronica Roth, Allegiant
Christine Daae ran from the stage, mad and desperate to find Erik, racing to her dressing room in the hope of locking the door behind her, so that she might attempt to make her way through the mirror to his home. As she fled, she could hear the oncoming, crisp sounds of quick footfalls echoing down the hallway. They belonged to the men that followed after her, the men that had plotted against her Erik. They would seek her out now, these callous men, and demand answers she did not wish to give. And she knew in her heart that it was the Vicomte that had pulled the trigger, felt that truth so deeply in the bottom of her soul that the pain of such a realization gutted the breath from her lungs. For what would she say to him, the man she had promised to marry six months earlier? There was no time to contemplate such answers. Raoul and his gendarmes would beg an explanation for her actions, for the madness they had beheld upon the stage. They would accuse her of betrayal, their voices would ring in her ears with a bitter, violent poison, never ceasing until they drove her insane. The threatening premonition of their arrival caused her to run faster, her body seizing with dread of the interrogation that was to come.
Soon.
Soon they would descend upon her with their questions, bloodshot eyes full of anger, and a malicious need for answers. Christine envisioned herself cowered in a candlelit corner, arms wrapped protectively against her blood-soaked breasts, her tears stunting the flow of her language as she vainly fought to answer their inquiries. It was a horrid image, and one she did not wish to face. Unless she was able to outrun them and pass through the mirrored portal to his brilliant, dark underworld. So, she ran faster, not even allowing herself the luxury of a harshly stolen breath as she moved. One foot in front of the other, the balls of her feet barely alighting to the marbled floor as she hurried to her escape.
Erik, where was her Erik. . .the very thought of finding him, of saving him, of staunching the flow of his impossibly warm blood with her quaking fingers. . .the stark image of his suffering propelled her forward in her frantic escape to the dressing room. He would not perish. Not after she had made her promise to him. She would be his wife. Christine had never thought that she could feel such a brutal pounding of love and desire within her soul, that love could be painful in its ravenous need, its yearning for wholeness. And without Erik, she realized that her heart would always be lacking. The cavern of her chest would forever crave completion, heaving and sagging with the intake of each breath, a labor brought on by the sunken, searching loneliness of his absence.
She must find her Angel.
"Mademoiselle," a voice yelled after her, far too close behind her for her mind's peace, "a word with you, now!"
Christine ignored the loud demand and quickened her pace, turning a corner, her hands gathering support from a shining marble pillar as she careened around a narrow hallway. Her heels clattered and slid across the slick floor. Christine's heart filled with dread, and she felt the sudden and disturbing need to retch, such was her discomfort and fear. For what could she say to them? What explanation could she possibly offer when they caught up with her? That she could no longer deny that she loved the very dangerous, and elusive man they wished to ensnare? That she would gladly betray them all again; the managers, the members of the company, and the Vicomte, her former fiancé, again, simply to be in Erik's embrace once more?
"Christine, please. . .Just stop. See reason! We must talk about this!" Raoul's voice was a tinny whine in the cacophony of the madness that drove her forward then. His desperate tone caused her chest to clinch as she ran, her heart tightening to the point of breathlessness. Christine did not pause to look back at him. She did not wish to put eyes upon him again, his handsome and boyish beauty be damned. Raoul held no charm or winsome childish promise for her now, not when he had struck the one for whom her soul throbbed. There was little doubt in her mind that her sweet Raoul had been the one to take the brutal shot at Erik, and the knowledge of that, brought all her feelings for the Vicomte to the furnace of her anger, to be melted from winsome love into something burning. A fire that had instantaneously incinerated the memories of their innocent childhood past. The Vicomte would never again be that charming boy with sand in his blonde- tousled hair, the youth that had dove into salty, coastal waves in search of a red scarf that had laced itself around her young throat before flying on the winds of the sea, far from the grasp of her small fingers.
Far from her grasp. . As Erik was now. The thought of him forever lost to her was overwhelmingly painful. Her mind held a haunted image then, that of an isolated princess in a tower, singing endlessly for her lost love, frantically creating paper notes to her Erik in a tear-flawed, hysterical scrawl, and then lifting those papers to the wind, spreading them widely out into the air, in that one hope that they would find him in heaven or alight to the world to which he had fled and call him back to her. To catch his voice and return him to her arms on the inconstant waves of an unrelenting wind. A wind that blew a gentle hush of fresh, warm assurance across her face. One that told her he was alive.
What was it then to be lifted by light, papery wings? To soar into an unknown future; fragile, damaged, and uncertain of the outcome, be it a daunting flight or failure?
The bird's wings in her heart stuttered as they fought not to shatter. Unsure, unsafe. Vulnerable.
Christine's vision blurred then, as her lover's blood fell down her face, coating her heavy eyelids. The blood had begun to stick and harden in lines on her flesh, a raw realization, a reminder of what had transpired upon that cursed stage. But she did not care, for it was the only piece of her Erik, her angel, that still clung to her, albeit in wet, clotting clumps. But it was still HIM. A salve of his presence upon her flesh, macabre and beautiful in its existence. She would wear his sacrifice with pride. A memento mori. But she would not believe him dead. For she could feel his pulse in the frantic throbbing of her heart.
The door to her dressing room stood before her, open, ready to provide her with sanctuary. Christine clambered inside and slammed the door tightly, locking the latch in a mad haste. She held no illusions that her pursuers would not pass through such a small barrier, but the moments of solitude the door allowed her were cherished. She scrambled to move her dressing table to the door, to form some rudimentary barricade to keep them out, but as she attempted to do so, they were already pounding upon the door with furious, urgent fists. There was no time.
"Christine, please! Open the door. Christine, open the fucking door!" It was Raoul's voice, usually so measured, soothing and calm, that now harshly beseeched her for entry, She'd never heard his words erupt in such cutting, angry tones, and the sound of them shook her so that she felt herself frozen in the space. Christine simply stood, hands quivering, awaiting the entrance of Raoul and the managers. She had a split-second notion that she should sit at her dressing room chair to brace herself for the onslaught, and backing away, without so much as looking behind her, she quickly did so.
A loud thud rang against the dressing room wall as the door slammed against it, at the arrival of her unwanted guests. The door had nearly splintered as it was forcibly kicked open.
"What in holy hell, Mademoiselle Daae?!," Monsieur Richard's shrill voice spat out, causing her to round and face the intruders, "What have you done?" You've ruined everything!" The flustered man wiped at his sweaty brow and began to pace the floor in front of her, with Firmin and the Vicomte practically rocking in the soles of their feet to have their turn at her.
As Christine took her first glance at her beleaguered fiancé', she knew for certain, from the shaking of his fingers and his inability to meet her gaze, that he had been the one to pull the trigger. Raoul, her sweet, childhood friend, her safe paramour, had drawn first blood from Erik. And in the concrete certainty of the realization, her feelings for him, that before that moment had only been carved of a nostalgic sweetness, morphed into a not so silent anger. Forever changed. The butterfly that once rose in her chest at the sight of him fluttered no longer. Instead, Christine felt for him a silent pity and an incomparable rage. How could so much love, built of golden and youthful memories, an engagement fostered of a winsome longing for bygone days, turn to utter hatred in a matter of minutes?
But it was her truth. The Vicomte and the managers held only poison for her now.
The sight of the three of them, their putrid hatred for her Angel, and the truth of their crime against her Erik, had brought Christine a new reserve of strength, a wellspring of courage she had not known she possessed. In the space of mere hours, Christine Daae had ceased to be that uncertain young girl, always glancing behind, forever questioning her emotions and choices, for the fear they might overpower her. A kiss and a promise she had offered, the placement of his ring upon her finger, had forever changed her. A decision to leave her fears behind, to embrace the one whom she found herself seeking at every waking moment; and her singular need to sing and to be with her Maestro had made her a woman. She was a lioness fighting for her own autonomy, claws and sharp fangs bared to their threats.
"What have I done, Monsieur? What have I done tonight that is worthy of your condemnation? For all of you allowed the shooting of a man in cold blood only minutes ago! With all the members of the audience, all the patrons, all the cast members watching! I dare say, the fault does not lie with me. As all of you practically bullied me to set the trap for my tutor! I did not want this. I made it known!" Christine rose sharply and shoved the stool she had been sitting on to the floor with a violent thrust. The sound of its fall resounded through the room and brought a moment of silence to all that inhabited the space.
An echo of a moment to allow flaming feelings to cool and recover, a second for those in attendance to gather their thoughts like crops in a field, hesitant and wary of the pricks of the wheat as they harvested their heated emotions. For, who would speak now in this tenuous space? Christine wondered just how quickly her guests would ignite the embers of their anger under her feet, and give weight to the intensity of their frustration with her actions.
She feared the Vicomte's words most of all. For, the two of them had been close mere hours ago. Engaged, even. Childhood sweethearts, that upon reuniting as young adults had held the foolish notion that a make-believe engagement, secret to others, would be an entertaining endeavor, regardless of the repercussions of such lackadaisical actions. A child's game of pretend, indeed. It had been safe, charming, and glamorous to imagine herself a Vicomtesse. Every little girl dreamt of living in a palace with a handsome prince, servants awaiting her every beckoning request. It was a far better future than any other chorus girl could have expected, after all. But Christine was not a child anymore, far from it. For life's struggles and the torment of her own emotions, the awakening of Erik's music in her soul, had forced her to grow into a maturity far beyond her young years.
She no longer dreamt of palaces, or of dollhouses and fine gowns and jewels. She only dreamt of the glory of his music and his captivating darkness which she no longer denied that she sought. She could have fled the Opera house, run deep into the dark, damp streets of Paris, but she did not know where her Erik was, nor would she be able to explain herself to the Vicomte, a man that up until his most recent horrid actions, she had cared for deeply. He deserved her closure, despite his murderous behavior.
But Christine stood unmoved,unflinching and ready to confront the men who had hurt her love. She could feel Erik's strong and defiant spirit coursing through every fiber of her being, his dried blood coating her skin like a macabre suit as sturdy and protective as the finest of armors.. She had found the wings of her courage. Those once fragile wings flapped freely now, unrepentant in their urgent need to fly. Christine thought of Erik's liquid golden voice as it murmured in her mind. He would ask her to be brave at this time or beg of her to flee and find safety. But she would not, at least not yet. For she had words to say to the men that had sought to make a pawn of her in their deadly game.
She would endure their ridicule and oppose them. Erik and his unknown condition haunted her, and her thoughts ran scattered and unclear. As she stared at the bewildered faces of the men before her, she could not form the words which would protect her.
"Christine, what in God's name have you done? You've destroyed it all, all the plans we'd made! What have you done?!" Raoul stammered, stripping himself of his suit jacket and scarf and throwing the items upon the floor in a dramatic fashion as he rounded on his heels to look at her.
Christine's once pristine face had become the warped, worn canvas of Erik's blood, a haunted daguerreotype of a violent memory that would never be lost. Her eyes found Raoul's in a steady, frightening determination. "Vicomte," she spoke in a slow, deliberate state of calmness, "tell your managers to leave this room. The words I must say are only for you. For, I will offer them not a single moment of my time on this murderous evening." The steely coldness of her voice could not be denied, and the flustered managers silently back-stepped and slipped out of the space, closing the door as they exited.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Christine lifted her eyes to meet the bewildered gaze of the Vicomte de Chagny. "Sir, we are not strangers," she released a mad cackle, such was her desperate hysteria, "please, have a seat." Christine gestured with two blood-coated hands to the divan she and Erik had occupied only hours before. As she did so, she righted the stool she had knocked over in her rage, and planted herself upon it, trembling fingers clasped tightly upon her lap. The image of a proper lady. But not a Vicomtesse.
Once they were alone, the Vicomte and herself, Christine's eyes became the silhouette of a distant and defiant sadness. Her love had been lost to her. Not just Erik, but every piece of her heart that had once claimed Raoul now vanished into the void of her tortured mind. Her voice caught before she spoke to him, the meeting of their eyes almost stalling her courage. Almost, but it was the image in her mind of Erik wounded and gone, the crimson cloud and the brutal, immense pain he must now be enduring stretched before her as she fought for him. If the battle be waged now by words alone, she was ready.
Raoul floundered in a foreign dynamic, one in which he had lost his confidence. The meek and frightened young woman he had once offered his proposal to no longer existed. In the wake of her departure lived a raging banshee, intent on having her voice, her madness, and her anguish heard. Felt.
"Christine, I never meant to hurt-"
"Stop, don't speak, I am exhausted by your words and the sound of your voice!" She snapped at him viciously, snarling into the clench of her teeth, chewing on each syllable with a singular malice.
Unsure of how to respond, the Vicomte moved frantically round the small space, until his eyes settled upon a wash basin. He lifted his discarded, rumpled jacket from the floor, searching for his handkerchief. Finding it in his front lapel pocket, Raoul moved to douse it in the wash basin, his fingers trembling as they searched for purpose, the tenseness of the room threatening to swallow and suffocate him. He dared a brief glance back at his erstwhile fiancée, unsure of what emotions he would read upon her fine features, as painted with the blood of his rival. Christine's visage held no love for him. Her eyes stared forward, wild and angry, her sweet lips set in a grim line of resolute and silent madness.
"Let me help you," he uttered in a quiet desperation, moving to dab the wetted cloth to her face, "You are covered in blood, Christine."
Chistine flinched and turned her head violently away from Raoul's searching hand. "Do not touch me again. I will not have your murderous hands upon me. I do not know you, sir. Not anymore." She turned her face to the floor, not wanting to offer him her eyes again, the tumult in her heart too strong to share in a gaze she dared not grant him.
"Darling, you're being completely unreasonable. I feel as if he's hypnotized you again! He's seduced you with his voice. You're not thinking clearly. Let me take you away from here!" Raoul made an attempt to lift her chin and dab at Erik's blood once more, but his fiancée abruptly rebuked him, violently jerking her face away from his grasp.
"Unreasonable?! You've shot the man I love, Raoul. In cold blood! I know it was you who pulled the trigger."
At her harsh truth, the Vicomte fell to his knees, his legs like breaking branches before her, wounded and defeated. "The man you love, Christine? Is that what that monster is to you? Up until only moments ago, you were happy to pledge your troth to me. I gave you my ring in exchange for your promise to be my wife! What has changed in you? I cannot for the life of me begin to understand what happened on that blasted stage tonight! You agreed to the plan!"
"I was all but throttled into the plan! For what choice did I have? What choice did either of you ever offer me. . .until this evening?" Christine released a ragged sob, spent and exhausted, her heart haunted with worry as, in her mind, she replayed the events of Don Juan Triumphant and Erik's honest proposal.
Raoul bent his head low and whispered then, his voice full of shame and loss, and an anger he refused to allow to coat his words. For the woman that sat before him, drenched in crimson clusters drying upon her soft, white flesh, now denied him. It was a despair and rejection he had never expected to experience.
"So, you love him, then? That beast who kidnapped you, lied to you, threatened my life, and murdered who knows how many men? That is the man you love? The one for whom you forsake me?"
Christine only nodded silently, for she lacked the energy to explain her decision. To her, Erik's crimes had now been forgiven, his faults laid bare before her and accepted. There was no longer a denial of her feelings for him. As utterly damaged as he was, Erik was her own, and she would claim him again and again if asked.
Raoul inhaled deeply and stood, composing himself and replacing his jacket upon his shoulders. "I would have my ring back then, Mademoiselle, if you please. And then we shall call things settled between us?" His attempt at dignity was lost on the young singer, for her mind was a fog of unnavigated sorrow.
Christine rose from her stool then, kicking it behind her, "Settled, are we? So, the Vicomte wants his ring back now? I, too, want something, someone, returned to me, Raoul! And I will have him back! I will find him. Your ring is lost to the world. I felt nothing as it rolled across the floor, a bauble for a dim-witted woman, happy enough to be wearing your jewels and presenting herself at your parties. Hollow of a soul, pockets full. A woman without a voice, but a belly full of child. Enjoy her, for I will not play that role. Your ring is lost to the wind, much like that meaningless scarf you rescued from the shore. A fool's mission, but I'm sure it made you feel like a hero then, much as your actions tonight have made you feel now. You like to play the hero, don't you, Raoul? You need something to give you purpose in that vapid, superficial life of yours. I understand now. It would never have been enough for me. That life. . ." She paused, catching her breath, steeling herself from a fresh onslaught of tears before she spoke her next words. She looked at Raoul directly then, her gaze a blue field of moving ice.
And then her heart softened. The malice she had nurtured for so many moments began to fall away, a shedding of layers of guilty, soiled clothes. Piling at her feet. A field of memories and regrets. And she could not rid herself of their constrictions fast enough. Their bindings withheld her truth and compassion. Her compassion for that young man that had only ever tried to love her. Even though it had never been enough.
And his love would never be enough.
For that, she pitied him. But her pity would not allow her to forgive him. Not completely.
Christine cleared her throat, and spoke in a labored breath.
"I am sorry. . .truly, but tonight you have broken me and my trust in you, Raoul." Christine paused, running her fingers under her eyes to wipe away bitter, and sadly remorseful tears. "I am sorry that I am just now realizing that I cannot be that person for you, that I cannot be your wife, when my whole being is drawn to him in music." She continued to mutter apologies to him, to herself in a miserable rasp, before inhaling a deep breath and gathering her composure and strength once more.
"But, can you understand, sweet Raoul? Can you ever understand what it is to have you ever offer another person a part of yourself? Have you ever given a piece of your soul to something or someone that meant more to you than your own desires? Have you dreamt to be better than you are in the hopes of giving your love, of sacrificing your pride, for the happiness of another?" Another labored breath, and her eyes sought her entwined fingers as she wrung them in distress. "I have, Vicomte," she moaned, "I have, but not for you. Never for you, and for that I am deeply sorry. You have never made my soul rise above the obstacles and possibilities the world placed upon me and my station. Only Erik has caused me to soar, to believe more of myself than I would ever have imagined. And isn't that what a love should be? The sharing of triumph, the support and the belief that one offers you in their faith that you may achieve all the dreams you harbored? To share in the glory of an impossibly brilliant life? Love should make the impossible real."
Christine stepped very close to her former fiancé, so very near that her hot breath whispered against his cheek as she stared beyond his eyes, perhaps truly seeing what was lacking inside of him for the very first time. "But, you would have my voice stifled, would crush my wings to my side and offer me a gilded cage. . ." she whispered for a moment, Christine's tone bathed in a quiet sorrow. Her beatific features slowly contorted into a tender look of pity and regret as she stared at him "Raoul, childhood memories cannot masquerade as love or passion. They are but a safe fantasy, a past I crawled into when I could not face my fears or my truths. And for that lie, I ask you to forgive me and to leave me. I will not be a wife to you." Christine lifted her trembling hand to his cheek tenderly. "I am sorry. Please leave me now. I must find the man you have tried to kill. For, he is not dead. He will never die. . ." Her fingers gripped his chin firmly and desperately for a mere moment, begging him to meet her gaze- a warning. "He will never die by your hand, Raoul."
The Vicomte caught her fingers one last time, slowly moving them from their clench upon his chin, knowing that this moment would be the final kind one he would share with her. "Goodbye, Christine Daae," he spoke softly, but his voice sat heavily in his throat as he released her hand. "I knew you once, but no longer." The Vicomte turned to go, grabbing the doorknob and attempting not to look back at her in defeat.
"Raoul," Christine breathed his name laboriously, an apology in her tone for those circumstances she could not control. For the love that she no longer felt for him. "Be well. I only ask one thing of you now, and I beg it of you with any love you may still hold for me. . .I beg it of the child that shared magical Nordic fairy tales with me before the fire and the music of my father's violin."
"What is it, Mademoiselle Daae. . .Christine?" A wave of tenderness flooded over the cold shell that had possessed him for weeks as he turned his head to look at the weeping and fiercely strong woman behind him. "What last thing would you ask of me before I leave you to your horrible, ill-chosen fate?"
Christine wove her tiny, trembling fingers through her blood-clotted curls and reached for her cloak. "Do not look for me. Do not try to find me. If you have any love for me still, do not hunt us down. I will find him, and when I do, you shall never worry that we will seek you out. No harm will come to you. Forget us and all of this."
The Vicomte simply nodded, turned the knob silently, and left his former fiancée for the final time. His last glance at her, before closing the door behind him, was full of a resolute sadness, and the searing shame of his actions that had brought such despair to the woman he had pledged to love and protect. In the end, he'd made a choice that had shattered and utterly demolished any faith or love Christine Daae had ever placed in him. A choice that Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny would come to regret for the remainder of his days on Earth, however long or short they may be. His memories would be forever tainted by the ghost of a dream, that of a red scarf, the golden laughter of a Swedish girl, and the looming, lethal shadow with the voice of an Angel.
The closing of the door brought a rush of urgency to the young soprano's heart. Christine brought her quivering fingers to her face, caressing Erik's onyx ring, the stone sullied with a crimson drop of its owner's blood. The sight of it brought her comfort and a sense of renewed urgency.
Christine Daae, the bird of shattered wings, locked the dressing room door behind her former fiancé. Once she was certain she was utterly alone, she strapped on a pair of sturdy boots and grabbed her heaviest cloak, as well as some clean pieces of cloth, some leftover bread and fruit from her lunch, and a lantern. Assured that she had packed everything she could possibly need, and draping the velvet-lined cloak across her narrow shoulders, Christine pulled the hidden mechanism to the mirror and ran towards the home of her dark lover.
She would find HIM. In whatever state he currently existed. She would find her Erik. Christine Daae would fly to his side on gossamer, tattered wings, the light of a single flame guiding her onwards into the shadowed subterranean unknown.