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Author Note: This is a complete rewrite of my story Music of My Heart. I recently went back and reread it. I realized that it was not what it could be or up to what I want it to be. I feel I can do it better now. So, I hope you like it and agree with me when it's all said and done.
There were two types of love in the world. There was the kind who loved halfheartedly, vaguely sincere when they said the words, but were able to take you or leave you if you did not meet their expectations. And there was the kind who loved so strongly that "love" was not the appropriate word anymore, but "obsession". The kind of love that one is willing to kill or be killed if only to have you in their presence for a time. If given the choice, which would you choose? Christine was given that choice. But that was not where our story started.
Christine was born in Uppsala, Sweden, in the spring of 1863, May 14th to be exact. Her parents were both musicians; her mother, Amelia, was a singer, and her father, Gustave, was a famous violinist. You can say music has always been a part of her life. Her mother died when she was two. She doesn't remember much about her. Papa used to tell her she was the very image of her mother with light auburn wavy hair and bright blue-green eyes, with childlike wonder, full of love and joy. Christine seemed to have inherited her gentle and kind soul, at least that's what Papa told her.
Her childhood was neither as rich as a nobility that paid us to sing and play for them, nor so poor that we lived like beggars on the streets. Many think Christine was sheltered and naïve, but she was not. She had seen the horrors of the world long before she reached the Paris Opera house. Christine and her papa traveled from city to city playing music. She tried to make friends in the cities we lived in. She played with children from all walks of life. It was in Marseille, France, where she met her first real friend. His name was Raoul de Chagny, he was a few years older than her but close to her age. At the time, he was such a sweet boy, she never would have guessed how he would have turned out. His family was there for vacation. They were staying in one of the numerous manors. He went into the sea to retrieve my red scarf that blew out of my hair. For days, they were inseparable, much to his parents' and siblings' horror and frustration. She was six at the time and was so happy, little did she know that in a year, her life would take a turn no one could have seen coming.
They were in Paris when her papa got sick, so very sick. They were staying with a friend of her father, Mama Valerius. When her father was on his deathbed, he vowed that when he was in heaven, he would send me the angel of music to watch over his little songbird. She did not want the Angel of Music. She wanted her papa. She wanted the one person who understood her. It was at that moment that she realized that we do not always get what we want, no matter how badly we want something. It was at that moment that she truly questioned if there was really a god. For what god would take not only a girl's mother but also her father, leaving her truly alone in this world?
Mama Valerius promised to take care of her as he was dying. But Mama Valerius was just an elderly woman when her father passed. She tried to care for Christine the best she could. She contracted a friend of Christine's mother, whom her father gave her the name of. Madame Giry came to collect Christine a few weeks later.
It was there that her world changed completely. Gone was traveling from place to place. Now, Christine had a permanent home. But no one truly got to know the real Christine. Many pitied her, others yet made fun of her. She put on a fake happy face, a mask if you will, but all the while she was hurting and was crying inside. It was only when she was alone in her bed that she would let her mask fall as she cried herself to sleep. It was then she prayed and prayed that her father would send her the angel of music. Not to watch over her, but just to have someone who would know the true her, or at least be willing to get to know her. Not just on your Gustave Daae daughter, do you know how to play violin? Why are you here? What is a girl from Sweden doing in Paris? Christine did not talk to anyone, she had no one. They had already been studying dance for years. They all had a small group of friends, already no one wanted to get close to the new sad girl. It was because of her crying herself to sleep for years that she was given her own dormitory with a large mirror and window. It was painted a dull shade of pink with gold and light brown accents. There was a wardrobe on one of the walls, a small bed on another, and a vanity on the last. She was eleven years old when she caught the attention of the man who would be her husband.
It was like night of any other night. Christine was a ballerina. After all day practicing with Madame Giry. She was hurting both physically and emotionally. She removed my pointe shoes. There was blood on her toes. As much as she wanted to try out the chorus, Madame Giry told her that she had to wait until she was at least thirteen to sixteen. She hates ballet. The graceful, elegant ballerina she was not. She was not like Sorelli or Meg, both seemed to ooze that grace and elegance. Both had the makings of a Prima Ballerina. Yes, Christine could do it. Do not get me wrong, she could be graceful and elegant, but at times, in truth, she was clumsy. Christine slipped into her slippers. She walked over to the mirror in her room. She rested her head against it. The mask completely fell off as tears poured down her angelic face.
"Papa, God, please, I cannot do this. Why have you forsaken me? You promised me. There is no angel of Music, Papa. I am alone. I fear my love for music is dying. Maybe it died with you. I don't want to be alone anymore," Christien cried, pleading with myself and God.
Erik, at that moment, was making his way back to his home after watching the rehearsal. He had heard crying for years, but that heartbreaking plea broke something inside of him. His long-standing thought was already broken inside of him. It was at that point that he walked close to a pleading cry. He came to stop at the mirror. That was when he first saw her. It was the young girl that Madame Giry brought to be a ballerina four years ago. The daughter of a Swedish violinist. There was youthful beauty to the sad face. Her auburn waves fell around her small frame. Her blue-green pleading for anyone to take away her pain. It was like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. She was still dressed for bed in a lace, simple, pale-yellow nightdress. For the life of him, he never knew why he did what he did in that moment.
"You are not alone, my child," Erik said
Christine's head snapped up. Her eyes looked frantically around the room. In that moment, she realized she was not alone anymore.
"Who's there?" Christine asked, scared.
"I am the Angel of Music, just like your father promised you. I've never abandoned you, child. You just did not need me. It saddens me to think your love for music is dying. Please, child, let it not be true," Erik pleaded.
"I don't know what to think anymore, angel," Christine answered truthfully.
All the while, in the back of her mind, she knew that man's voice that was talking to her was likely just that, a man. But also in that moment, she did not care, for the first time in four years, she was not alone.
"Come now, child, you must be tired. Get in bed, know I will be watching over you," Eik reassured her.
Christine moved from the mirror. She moved with grace but with newfound confidence. She pulled the cover back, crawling into bed.
"Thank you, angel," Christine muttered as she drifted off to sleep.
Erik watched her for a time. He was so confused about why he would do such a thing. But for some reason, that small girl reminded him so much of himself. Her child's angelic face with eyes that seemed to see the weight of the world haunted him like nothing ever had.
Erik made his way into his home in the catacombs. He threw his cloak on the hook. He did not realize his friend, Daroga Nadir Khan, was there. Nadir jade color eyes watched as Erik sank into a chair. He was still trying to figure out why he did what he did. How could he be so stupid? Nadir looked at him as Erik hung his head, shaking it. He was muttering under his breath.
"You're late, my friend," Nadir said, taking a drink of his tea.
Erik's golden eyes snap up at the sound of Nadir's voice. For the first time since he arrived, he took in the sight before him. Ayesha, his seal point Siamese cat with her large diamond collar, was lounging by the sofa near Nadir. Nadir was sitting on his sofa, drinking tea with his short Astrakhan cap on his dark black hair. His jade-colored eyes watched Erik every move over his teacup.
"I got distracted," Erik admitted.
"What has distracted you, my friend?" Nadir asked, intrigued.
Nadir knew Erik was not one to get distracted by anything. Erik rose to his full six-foot-two-inch height. He started to pace and hunched into himself. The images of young Christine plagued his mind. Her blue-green eyes, with the weight of the world, consumed him.
"A girl. I spoke to her through the wall. I claimed to be the Angel of Music sent by her father," Erik explained.
"You are this worked up over a girl, Erik. There must be something special about her," Nadir laughed.
"This is not funny," Erik growled, his golden eyes flashing with his temper.
"I believe it is," Nadir claimed, taking a drink. Erik gave him a look that read "You are not helping matters." Nadir placed his teacup down. Sitting full up, he was not relaxing against the sofa. His jade eyes still showed merriment, but there was seriousness to his face and his mannerisms. "Alright. Alright are we talking about young lady or are we talking about a child, Allah this is important," Nadir asked.
"A child, no more than eleven years old," Erik told him.
"This is fine, you are only fifteen years older than her. You are not old enough to be her father. I'm assuming she is a ballerina at that age." Nadir said.
"Yes, Madame Giry brought her here four years ago after her father died. He was a violinist. Daae was his last name, I believe," Erik said, sitting down finally.
"Gustave Daae, the famous violinist, his daughter is in the Paris Opera house," Nadir said in shock.
"One and the same, why, what's so special about that?" Erik asked, confused.
Nadir recalled a concert he went to just outside of Paris. Gustave Daae was playing was perfect even with his failing health. Nadir could see that after working for the Shah of Persia. And seeing his fair share of death. He remembered a young girl who sang along with her father's playing. Even at the age of six, it was clear that her voice was something special, untrained as it was. He could only imagine what Erik could do with such a voice.
"Music runs in that family veins, Erik," Nadir said finally.
Erik nodded as he petted Ayesha. She let out contented purrs. He pulled out the chest table and motioned for Nadir to begin their game. It quickly became just like any other night when they had their meetings.
May 14th came quickly after that. Now that Christine had her Angel of Music, she opened herself more, all the while the mask was still there. She would not let the rest of them see how she fully felt. She made some more friends, Sorelli and Meg being the closest to her. The day of her birthday, most of the ballet girls gave her small trinkets or hairpins, or ribbons. Sorelli and Meg gave her something that showed just how little they knew her. They both looked so pleased and excited to give it to her. Christine smiled as she accepted what could only be a cage. She quickly removed the wrapping. To reveal a caged bird, but it was not just any bird; it was a nightingale. The little bird sang sweetly to Christine.
"It's to keep you company," Meg explained.
They both looked at me, waiting for my acceptance of their gift. Christine gave a forced smile as the little bird sang to them. Her blue-green eyes went to Sorelli and Meg's faces, then back to the bird. They believed her smile was one of real happiness. But inside her heart and soul was breaking.
"It's wonderful, thank you both," Christine thanked them.
They both ran off, their blonde hair flowing behind them. Christine was left alone in one of the practice rooms. She slowly picked up her gifts, heading back to her room. At least she knew Mama Valerius had sent her a box of Chokladsnittar (Swedish cookies). At least some seemed to care about what she liked or wanted. Christine frowned as she entered her room. She saw the garden from her window. It was so full of life and color. She placed the small cage by the large golden mirror. She quickly headed behind the dressing divider, changing out of her leotard and into a cream day dress. She headed out to the garden.
Christine walked around the majestic garden with flowers of every color that she could imagine. She stopped by a large red bush. She sank to her knees. She pulled her arms around her knees. She realized how little the girls knew her. Even who she considered her friends did not know her. Her auburn waves covered her face.
Unknown to her, Erik watched her from a secret passageway. He had taken an interest in this girl. She looked almost like the white rose from the story Nadir once told him about the Nightingale and Rose. Even if the months that had passed since that day he claimed to be the Angel of Music. Her body had changed, maybe from all the extra work she put into her dancing. Or maybe it was that her body was on the cusp of puberty.
"What's wrong, sweet girl?" A woman's voice asked.
Christine looked up and saw a woman with light brown hair with blue eyes. By her was a young man with curly brown hair and brown eyes. He was dressed as an officer in the army. While the woman was in a day dress of lilac color. Her blue eyes showed that she understood more than most.
"It's nothing. It's just realized, Madame, how little my friends know me," Christine admitted.
"That cannot be true, mademoiselle," the woman tried to comfort Christine.
"Oh, but it is," Christine despaired.
Christine's eyes traveled to the man. He regarded her.
"How old are you, mademoiselle?" the man asked.
"Twelve tonight, Monsieur," Christine answered.
"Then happy birthday, Mademoiselle," The man said.
"Christine, my name is Christine Daae, and thank you," Christine introduced herself.
"Lieutenant Charles Martin and my wife Sylvie," Charles introduced himself and his wife.
Charles, Sylvie, and Christine talked for hours until the sun began to set. They took the time to cheer Christine up and get to know her. Not the façade but the real her.
"We look forward to your debut as Prima Donna," Sylvie told her.
"La Charlotta is Prima Donna. I likely will just end up as a chorus girl," Christine explained.
"Never underestimate yourself, Christine. If you need someplace to stay here, our address," Charles told, handing her a piece of paper with the address written on it.
"Thank you, both of you made my birthday bearable," Christine admitted.
"It is the least we can do," Sylvie told Christine as she hugged her.
"I really must be going, thank you both again, Monsieur and Madame, Good Night," Christine told them.
Christine started to head back to the Opera house. She paused at the gate of the garden. She watched Sylvie and Charles as they walked arm and arm, looking at each other with love very clearly in their eyes. It was the same thing that she longed for even now, that type of love and companionship.
The moon was now the only light in her room. The nightingale was singing to the moon. Christine looked down, her heart filled once again with despair and hurt. She walked over, dropping her knees by the cage. The little nightingale paused its song, looking at Christine. The nightingale tilted its little head. He started to sing again, this time for her. Tears were pouring down her face, she shook her head no.
"I know how you feel. You feel trapped, don't you? Well, I will let you in on a secret, so do I. I do not deserve you. Not any of God's creatures deserve to be placed in a cage for any single person's enjoyment," Christine whispered.
Unknown to her, Erik was right behind her mirror. He watched as Christine got up from the ground. She pushed a chair over by the window. She looked back at the caged nightingale. She got up onto the chair, and Erik held his breath as he watched a small girl push open the window that overlooked the garden near the Opera House. Christine got down and walked back to the cage. She opened the cage door, leaving it open. Erik and Christine both waited for the bird to leave the cage. But the bird did not; he only looked at Christine with confusion in his little eyes. What she did next shocked Erik to his core. He had thought all girls or women were the same. Compassion and kindness were nothing but fake flattery to get what they wanted. Christine stuck her small hand into the cage. The nightingale, perched on her dainty fingers, slowly sang his song to her. She walked back over to the chair, climbing back up. She allowed the nightingale to stand on the windowsill. A cool spring breeze blew the lacy curtains of her room. And made her hair flow behind her. He fluttered his wings in the breeze. She smiled and laughed as he did so. The bird looked at her for a time.
"The world deserves to hear your music, not just me. Go, you are free," Christine told it.
Tears came again as she watched the bird stretch his wings. Before, he took off into the night sky. He started to sing a song that was different from the ones he sang to her when he was in the cage. It was the same in all reality, but the feeling behind it had changed completely. It was joyful and so free. She knew in that moment she had done the right thing. She watched the bird soar and dance in the sky for a time. A real smile graced her face as she felt the bird's joy. Christine shut the window. She turned back to climb down from the chair. A ray of moonlight illuminated behind her like an aureole. He took suck in air. She looked like a holy angel in human flesh. She allowed her body to fall into the chair. She rubbed her arms. Her birthday and his death date were always the hardest.
"Papa, I miss you. I wish you were here to hold me close. I know I should be grateful that you sent the Angel of Music to me. But he is not you," Christine lamented, missing her father's warm embrace.
"I know I can never replace your father, sweet child. But I am here," Erik called to her.
"I know it is a sin to want for things that cannot be. It's just this day is always hard for me. That and the day he joined you in heaven, leaving me behind and in a place I cannot follow," Christine confessed.
Erik quickly realized it was likely her birthday. That explained the gifts around the room and the bird cage with a red ribbon tied at the top of it. He could understand the desire to held even if he had never himself felt such a time. He could only imagine what it would be like to have such things and have them taken away. It must be like torture, and he knew torture. The many traps and torture chambers below their feet that could attest to that fact. He had made them all.
"Your sin is forgiven, child. Happy Birthday, Mon Petit," Erik told her.
"Could you maybe sing me to sleep, Mon Ange?" Christine asked sheepishly.
"It would be my honor," Erik said to her.
He watched as she slipped behind the dressing divider. She pulled off her day dress and emerged in a cream nightdress. She quickly braided her hair. She dropped to her knees and muttered a quick prayer. Before, she crawled into bed. Soon her room was filled with Erik's angel-like voice singing her a lullaby. She drifted off to sleep with his music in her mind. Erik, once he was sure she was deeply asleep, opened the mirror door. He knelt beside her bed like she was a holy altar. A single wave fell from her braid, crossing her delicate face. He moved it with all relevance.
"Good night, Mon Petit Ange," Erik said softly.
Erik quickly got up as an idea for his opera came quickly to his mind. He had to write it now when inspiration struck him. It seemed this Christine Daae may turn out to be something of a muse to him. Little did he know how true that thought was without even hearing her sing.
